


Reap what you Sow

by jomipay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Wedding Planner, Alternate Universe- Divorce Lawyer, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Human AU, Lawyer! Crowley, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Solicitor! Crowley, Wedding planner! Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2020-12-09 14:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jomipay/pseuds/jomipay
Summary: Aziraphale loves his job as a wedding planner. He gets to sample all the foods at catering appointments, taste all the potential cakes, and his clients sometimes bring him gifts like bottles of wine. Crowley's a very talented solicitor at a family firm. His specialty is particularly difficult divorces and the pro bono custody cases he does on the side. When a mutual friend introduces the two, the connection is undeniable, but it's not the first time they've met. As they navigate their developing friendship, the spectre of their last meeting haunts them, and Crowley works through one of the toughest cases he's ever had.The wedding planner/divorce lawyer AU that's really a wedding planner/family law solicitor AU that ran away from me and became so much more.





	1. Malbec

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I was kind of nervous about this because I was like, what if it's bad, what if I don't do it justice? But then I was like what the hell, this is for fun, and I sure did have fun writing it, so I hope you have fun reading it :)

Aziraphale loved his job. Well and truly adored it. He was reminded of it every time he flicked through wedding catalogs and watched his client’s faces light up, or every time he showed a couple a venue they fell in love with, or when he sat next to them sampling cakes, watching the happiness flow between them and a little more of the stress from the planning roll off of their shoulders as he watched, happily eating his own slice. He was currently assisting his last client of the day, a lovely middle-aged gay couple. Of all the couples Aziraphale had planned weddings for in his decade long career, this couple might have been one of his favorites. They were simply delightful. The older of the two men, Thomas (only by a few years, mind you) was a neurosurgeon that had gotten divorced from his ex-wife of several years after meeting his betrothed, Eugene, and deciding he wasn’t actually happy in his marriage, no and if he had a chance at achieving real happiness, why he ought to take it, shouldn’t he? Thomas and Eugene had met at a classics book club, and along this vein they always had plenty to talk about with Aziraphale. The story of how they met and Thomas’s bravery in pursuing his own happiness and being able to leave the life he was unhappy with was enough to earn the couple a high place of honor in Aziraphale’s heart. It also helped that Eugene worked as a Sommelier and the couple was known to bring wine for Aziraphale to their appointments.

Thomas and Eugene had just made a decision on their wedding venue a couple of weeks ago and were looking at some decoration options and different florists today. They had selected silver and a dark blue for their colors, so they had a myriad of choices on both fronts. The venue they’d chosen was of the recently-renovated-industrial space that was so in vogue right now. It could be made up any number of ways, which was convenient and allowed them great flexibility in decoration.

Eugene flipped a page of the catalog they were currently looking through when his face suddenly illuminated and he looked to his partner with a soft gasp, “Oh, Tommy, look at the lights! Do you think we could do something like that? What do they call those anyway…” Eugene stroked his chin thoughtfully, snapping as he tried to make the words come to him. Thomas looked on with fondness. “Fairylights!” He slapped his thigh in victory. “That’s what they’re called, right?” Thomas and Eugene both turned to Aziraphale for confirmation.

Aziraphale nodded, “Fairylights, holiday lights, string lights, anything that gets the notion across works just fine.” Aziraphale came to peer over both men’s shoulders at the picture they were looking at. “Oh, I think something like that would look marvelous. We could have them strung up in the rafters and around the tables, give a very nice sparkly moonlight feeling to everything, I think.” Eugene nodded, looking to Thomas for approval.

Thomas smiled at Eugene, “I think that would be quite lovely, actually.” He reached for Eugene’s hand on the table and gave it a squeeze. Aziraphale sighed to himself, taking in one of many of the loving gestures that flowed so easily between the two men. _They really are so lovely together. _It was the kind of relationship he’d want for himself, if ever the right person were to come along. _Maybe the right person was there, and I just wasted so much time I missed the opportunity_. He tried not to be so hard on himself, but he’d lived his life in denial of who he truly was for so long, a homosexual man hailing from a very uptight religious family, it was an unfortunate habit. He’d been, what was it the young people said, out and proud for a bit longer than his wedding planning career, and he had no hang ups to speak of except that he only wished he’d done it sooner.

He let the couple flick through his recommendations for florists as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out and saw the text was from Anathema. _Going for drinks with Newt and an old friend after work, place has good wine, want to join?_ Aziraphale enjoyed Anathema and her fiancé very much, and he was never one to turn down good wine. He typed out a reply in the affirmative, telling her he’d stop by her shop on his way out after he closed up.

Eugene and Thomas had ended up making a list of their favorite florists and another list of all the flowers they thought they were interested in and Aziraphale sent them home with some catalogs. He set up an appointment for cake tasting at Newt’s shop with them and bade them a lovely evening and farewell, tucking the bottle of red they’d brought him under his arm as he locked up. Aziraphale paused on the sidewalk in front of his shop for a moment, making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. Once he was satisfied he hadn’t left anything plugged in or turned on that could wreak havoc or start a fire, he padded the twenty or so feet down the street to Anathema’s apothecary. Aziraphale didn’t think he believed in witchcraft or the occult particularly, but Anathema was very pleasant. And besides, she had a whole selection of kitchen spices in store and she made the most exquisite candles and incense sticks.

The bell to her shop chimed as he pushed open the door. Anathema was leaning on the counter, scrolling through her phone. Aziraphale cleared his throat, “What’s this about drinks, then?”

Anathema tore her eyes away from her phone, standing to attention at the sound of his voice. She gave him an electric smile, one that was particularly dangerous coming from her, the one that usually meant she was up to mischief. She came around to Aziraphale’s side of the counter, the fabric of her floor length skirt bustling. “We’re going to Grapes of Wrath, it’s a wine bar that just opened up a few blocks over.” She jabbed her thumb in towards the East end of Soho. Her eyes were dancing with the flames of mischief, Aziraphale could see the cogs whirring in her head.

“Who’s this old friend you have?” he asked, fixing her with a look conveying his suspicion about her intentions. She’d been known to play matchmaker in the past.

She swatted his arm, “Relax.” He didn’t.

“You’ll like him. I’ve known him since Uni,” she reassured. Aziraphale let some his suspicion drop away.

“He’s a solicitor, really handsome, and you’re just his type.” Anathema gave him a sly smile and Aziraphale sighed, already resigned to go.

He waved his hand, dismissing her, “I doubt that, but I will indulge in your company regardless, my dear.” Aziraphale placed his hands on his slightly plump middle over his waist coat, trying to emphasize exactly what he thought about the notion that he was anyone’s type.

“Please, there are people that like cute wedding planners with cherubic cheeks and curls.” She winked at him.

She continued before he had a chance to retort, “We’re meeting there at 8:30, don’t be late.”

“As if I’m ever late.” He scolded her, telling her he looked forward to seeing her and Newt later that evening and walking home to relax for a bit before his engagement.

***

Crowley had just sat back down at his paper strewn desk when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Grateful for the distraction from what had been a trying and busy day thus far, he took it out immediately. A text from Anathema lit up his screen.

_Fancy a drink with Newt and I later? New wine bar in Soho, sounds like your kind of place. _

He typed back quickly, _Count me in. Would love a drink, or several? _

Anathema texted him the time and place. He set his phone down and turned to some of his never-ending paperwork. He was just jotting down some notes on some of the case files when his phone buzzed again.

_Mind if I bring a friend along?_

Crowley set his pen down and typed back, _You could bring the bloody Pope for all I care._

He waited for her reply, _Perfect_, before flipping his phone over, face down, on his desk to get some work done so he could leave. He read a few pages of his case notes, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. Why was it so bloody cold in the building all the time? He got up and turned the shades on his office windows down before wrapping himself in a fluffy blanket he kept stowed away under his desk. Wouldn’t do for his reputation for anyone to see him snuggled up like a human pig-in-a-blanket. God, he could feel a migraine coming on. He threw his sunglasses on. The alcohol probably wouldn’t help but he wasn’t going to abstain, not tonight. The case he was working on was draining him. A husband and wife going through an ugly divorce. The husband was a prick and the wife was a cunt. He was meant to be representing the husband, much to his dismay. The husband was slightly more of a prick than the wife was a cunt. They’d both committed adultery, the trouble was trying to pin down the timeline with any degree of certainty, and they were so _nasty_ during meetings. The sooner this one was over the better.

Crowley worked for another hour or so before calling it quits. He hoped this place had some kind of food otherwise he was about to get utterly and embarrassingly pissed off a couple glasses of wine with nothing in his stomach. He looked the menu up while walking to his car, finding that they did indeed have food. He checked the time, 7:30. He figured he’d just drive straight there and grab a bite. He shot Anathema an invitation and screeched out of the parking lot in his vintage Bentley. _This job does have its perks_, he reminded himself, weaving in and out of traffic. One of those perks being that he could afford to drive and maintain this precious car. The job was worth it.

***

Aziraphale walked into Grapes of Wrath right at 8:25, having enjoyed a leisurely stroll from his flat., thinking that he’d beaten Anathema and Newt, he was surprised when he heard the latter calling to him from a booth. He was just about to scold her for giving him the wrong time when he caught site of the man sitting across from her. His breath hitched and he swore he felt his heart stop and restart. There was only one man he’d ever met with that shade of red hair. His hair had been longer then, but he was almost certain it was the same man. If the hair wasn’t confirmation, the sunglasses definitely were. Aziraphale plastered an inauspicious everything’s tickety-boo smile on his face.

Anathema shuffled out of the booth and slung an arm around his waist. “Aziraphale! Sorry, we decided to meet a bit early for some food, I tried to send you a text, but it didn’t go through.” She frowned, before continuing, “Anyway, Aziraphale, this is Anthony Crowley, Crowley, this is Aziraphale.”

“We’ve actually met before.” Crowley said, extending his hand to Aziraphale. Aziraphale took it, not sure if his hand was actually shaking or if it was in his head. A distinct flash of shoulder length red hair and long limbs hit him, long slender fingers dragging down his arm after a few too many drinks at a party. He chased the thoughts away, taking a seat beside him. “Couldn’t quite remember all the syllables in your name. Remembered it was some angel or another though.” Aziraphale swallowed past the burning in his throat, remembering a hand sliding across his alcohol flushed cheeks many years ago. _“Just like an angel. Look at those cheeks, so rosy. So fetching.”_ He felt his cheeks flush in the present, completely independent of any kind of alcoholic influence.

Aziraphale fought to regain some of his composure. “Right, we umm—we went to school together, for a time.” He explained to Anathema, who’s eyebrows had been raised since Crowley had announced their previous acquaintance.

“What are you doing now then, eh angel?” he teased. Anathema giggled. Did he remember calling him that, or was he just referring to what he’d said earlier, about his name? “Aziraphale’s a wedding planner.” Anathema answered for him. “He’s actually planning our wedding!” She added, gesturing between her and Newt excitedly.

“I actually get a lot of business from Aziraphale.” Newt piped up. “Make a lot of wedding cakes for his clients.”

Anathema leaned across the table, “You never told me you went to law school!” she chastised. 

“Yes, well it was a very long time ago, dear.” Aziraphale really, desperately needed a drink. His throat felt impossibly dry. “Excuse me, but can I see a drinks menu?” He inquired. Newt passed one to him and he perused it, calming a bit. The rest of the table chatted idly.

“Oh, the Malbec sounds good.” The menu boasted hints of vanilla and black cherry.

Crowley angled his head toward him. “I’ve got that here, actually.” He swirled a dark, almost purple liquid in a stemless wine glass. He set it on the table and pushed it toward him. “Take a sip, see if you like it.”

Aziraphale kept his voice even, remarkably. “Why, that’s kind of you, thank you.” Aziraphale took a delicate sip, careful to latch his lips around a spot that wasn’t smudged with marks from the other man’s lips. The Malbec was just as good as it sounded.

“Oh, oh my, that’s simply divine. I think I’ll have one of those, excuse me.” He excused himself to the bar and returned a couple minutes later with his own glass. He settled back into the booth and asked Crowley politely, “So what is it that you’re doing now?” Taking a prim sip from his glass.

Crowley took a gulp of wine and answered, “Family law at Arches, divorces mostly.” Aziraphale almost spit his wine out. Anathema cackled. Crowley smiled into his glass.


	2. Ophelia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘S fine. Crowley told himself. Everything’s fine. It’s cool. I’m cool. He lied about not remembering Aziraphale’s full name. He remembered—he’d just never been able to get all the syllables out when he was sloshed, and he had been for nearly all of the handful of times their orbs of their lives had brushed. He’s horrified at himself when he tacks “eh, angel?” onto the end of his question. He never could stop it from slipping out, and maybe he hadn’t had enough to eat with his wine after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! New chapter. I have a bit of extra time this weekend so lots of time to write. Updates probably won't be this frequent in the future but we can hope. I hope you enjoy :) Also note the ratings bump, there's a brief explicit interlude in the chapter, but you can easily skip over it if that's not your jam.

Crowley hadn’t recognized Aziraphale at first. It was dim in the bar and he had his sunglasses on, still fighting off that migraine. If he’d been totally sober and seen him in proper lighting, even from a distance, he would have recognized his platinum curls instantly, even after several years. As it happened, he was just thinking that the man he was being introduced to looked familiar when Ana said his name. A jolt of electricity coursed through Crowley’s body and purged the glass of wine he’d already imbibed from his system. _This is not happening, there’s no fucking way. _He was at that moment very much thankful for his sunglasses and the dim lighting for hiding his surprise and the excuse of consuming alcohol for hiding the flush that rose to his face. Crowley had long ago resigned himself to never seeing him again, to never knowing what might have happened to the man with the hair so white-blonde it gave him a halo when the light struck it just right. (The light always seemed to strike it just right.)

A very plastered Crowley had even told him so, _“Oh, you’ve even got a halo,” he remembers giggling to himself, ruffling the other man’s hair and swaying on his feet, “you _are _an angel._

The man had checked off all the things Crowley never knew he found so devastatingly attractive, but once he’d seen it, once he’d sat and bathed in the ethereal glow and the warmth and softness of his aura; he was never quite the same. And then he’d disappeared without a trace, and now, a sodding decade later, he was suddenly _sliding into a booth next to him. And apparently, he plans weddings?_

_‘S fine. _Crowley told himself. _Everything’s fine. It’s cool. I’m cool._ He lied about not remembering Aziraphale’s full name. He remembered—he’d just never been able to get all the syllables out when he was sloshed, and he had been for nearly all of the handful of times the orbs of their lives had brushed. He was horrified at himself when he tacked “eh, angel?” onto the end of his question. He never could stop it from slipping out, and maybe he hadn’t had enough to eat with his wine after all. If Aziraphale was bothered by the slip, it didn’t show. He’d been teasing anyway, and it looked like no harm done.

When Aziraphale left to get his glass of wine, Crowley stared at the condensation on his glass where Aziraphale had taken a testing sip. Crowley closed his eyes behind his dark lenses, took a couple deep breaths, listening to Ana chatter to her fiancé. He felt calmer. He forced more of his appetizer soup down and its warmth, radiating out from his stomach, was grounding. By the time Aziraphale came back, he felt much more in control.

He’d enjoyed the irony of their opposing careers, and the humor in Aziraphale’s flabbergasted reaction, nearly choking on a swig of his wine, with Ana cackling madly at them in the background. _It’s a witch’s cackle_ he’d always told her. She was enjoying herself rather too much.

“You’re good for business.” Crowley told him, one elegant brow arched high. Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh, always a fan of a bit of dark humor. Crowley had expected him to bite back at that, but instead, Aziraphale conceded, tilting his head and drinking from his waning glass.

Crowley eased as the group talked on through a few more glasses of wine. He caught Ana up with his work, griped about his current case some.

“That sounds less than pleasant.” Aziraphale chimed in, a look of distaste on his face.

“It is less than pleasant.” Crowley flicked a crumb across the table at Anathema. “But, gotta do the dirty high paying ones to do the good ones.”

A look of intrigue crossed Aziraphale’s face. “What do you mean? I imagine most of your clients pay rather well, Arches is a very reputable, rather high-end sort of firm, is it not?”

“Oh, it is. I just like to do some pro bono stuff from time to time. Battered wives, abused partners that don’t have enough money to get away, that sort of thing.” Aziraphale wore an expression he couldn’t place an emotion to. “Besides, it riles Gabriel up 6 ways to Sunday and that’s always a good bit of fun.”

Aziraphale indulged him in a conspiratorial smile before agreeing. “That does sound like good fun.”

Sometime later, the topic of conversation shifted to food. Crowley wasn’t a particularly big eater, but he could get behind certain foods. Ana had been singing the praises of a pastry shop Aziraphale recommended, when Aziraphale set both of his hands on the table and proclaimed, “Do you know what I could really go for? Some good sushi.” He pat the table once with his hands in emphasis.

“Darcan’s is supposed to be good, been open about a year, someone at work was telling me about it.” Newt supplied.

“Wait, Darcan’s?” That name sounded familiar to Crowley, he searched his sluggish brain, “I know the bloke that own’s that place! Could probably get a decent discount, pretty gourmet if I’m remembering right.”

Ana’s eyes grew at least two sizes. “Count me in!” she exclaimed.

“Me too,” Aziraphale said, nodding beside him.

Their little gathering decided to dissipate around 10, Crowley begging off with the excuse he had to be up early. Not untrue, but he was rapidly losing his battle with the migraine and he wanted to get home to where it was dark and quiet before it could really get going. He said goodbye to Ana and Newt, telling her he’d be round some time soon to catch up.

“Right, well I’m parked down this way,” He said, gesturing in the direction away from Ana and Newt.

“Oh, Aziraphale lives down that way, have a nice night!” There was a glint in her eye as she strode off, linking one of her arms with Newt’s. Ana had been the one to suggest his parking spot. There was very few coincidences when it came to Ana.

He and Aziraphale started off together in companionable silence. It was broken some moments later by the former saying, “It is quite nice, you know, taking on pro bono clients, especially at a firm like Arches.”

Crowley waved the thought away, “Just doing my service to society.”

They were quiet for a few breaths, nothing but the sound of eager young people prattling about from bar to bar and passing traffic.

“I reckon you’ve got the better of it, anyway. Your own business and everything. You like it?” Crowley asked.

They let a gaggle of women navigate through them before Aziraphale answered, “I do, quite a bit.”

Crowley hummed as they approached the spot the Bentley was parked in.

“Oh, is this you?” Aziraphale asked, eyeing the car appreciatively.

Crowley clicked his key fob, unlocking the doors in response. “Job’s got it’s perks, I s’pose.”

_Please give me your number_ he thinks, but he doesn’t say (he’s asked it before). _Crowded together on a worn couch, Crowley hands him a sharpie. “Just write it on my arm, my phone’s dead.” _

Aziraphale nodded, “Well, I’ll leave you to the rest of your evening. Until sushi!” He pumped his fist excitedly in the air as he padded off down the street, away from Crowley. _That was bloody cute._ He grumbled to himself and got in the car.

***

By the time Crowley shirked all his layers and threw himself onto his bed, his head was pounding. More than pounding, it felt like someone was using the world’s dullest hammer on a stubborn nail and his head had the distinct misfortune of being the nail. He hoped his meds would kick in sooner rather tha later. He’d been using the meds since he was a teenager, sometimes they worked, sometimes they didn’t. All up to the luck of the draw. He hoped for the best and settled in for a long night.

Crowley slept fitfully that night. If he dreamt, he couldn’t recall by the time his phone alarm went off that morning. He took another one of his pills, hoping to ward off another migraine. He was already feeling like a stranger in his own skin when he sped off to work, stopping for coffee on the way. He briefly considered whether coffee was a good idea since he was already feeling jittery, but he had a lot to get done, and he hadn’t slept well. Coffee won. He didn’t take his sunglasses off when he plopped down at his desk. He didn’t turn the lights on either. He kept his office shades shut and elected to look at his computer through his shades in the dark.

He banged out a good chunk of his paperwork and went to meet with a client. The jittering seeped into his bones as he slogged through the meeting. He scuttled back to the dark and quiet of his office after, and by no small amount of effort, caught up on his paperwork. By the time he was done for the day, he felt like his own body was trying to push him out. He was full of stripped wires tied to something with an electrical short and the resulting _thrum_ was resonating through his head, his heart, his _soul_.

He didn’t remember much of the drive home. He sat, tried to watch telly. No good. Watered his plants, not remembering if he’d actually watered the one he was standing in front of or if he was about to. He paced, stared in the fridge. He paced some more and then he headed out to do the only thing he knew would ground him.

He took a cab to the club; one of his usual haunts for such occasions. It was a bit early, but it was a Friday and it had been dark for over an hour now, so there were plenty of bodies clanging around. He lurked by the bar, waiting (it never took long). He ordered himself a double shot, cheap whiskey, drank it slowly, let the liquid burn through the ashes he felt piled in his throat. He wandered into the throng of bodies dancing, feeling the pounding of the music vibrate through the souls of his shoes and fight with the jittering in his skeleton. A body pushed up close to his, rubbing against him.

After whoever it was had decided he was interested, he leaned in to shout into Crowley’s ear, “I’m Jeremy. Can I get you something to drink?”

Finding Jeremy acceptable, Crowley shook his head, “I’m good on alcohol.” He shouted back, “But I think I can do you one better.”

They danced together a while longer, grinding their hips against each other, until they spilled out of the club and into a cab, sweaty limbs tangled together on the ride to his flat. After he unlocked his door and closed it, Jeremy shoved him against it, attacking his mouth, grinding into his hips and already moving to unbutton Crowley’s shirt. _Yes, just fuck me right here. Right against the door and then leave._ Crowley allowed himself be dragged to the couch. He fumbled roughly at the other man’s trousers, felt the hardness through the denim. Once a certain state of undress had been obtained, Crowley pulled away.

“What you doin?” Jeremey asked as Crowley stalked off to his bedroom, returning with a condom and a bottle of lubricant.

“Nothing without this.” He answered, showing the foil packet and lubricant to him. He took them clicking his tongue against his teeth. “I’ve no idea where you’ve been, condom or nothing.” Jeremy nodded his head in agreement.

Crowley went through the ritual. He felt the last of his clothes being removed and he clumsily tugged off the last of his partner’s. He turned, on his knees in front of his couch as cold unfamiliar hands perfunctorily caressed his erection and then his arse before one slick finger breeched him, and then it was two, thrusting in and out quickly and not without pain. But the pain was part of what Crowley liked about these experiences, when he needed to be grounded, to be set back in his own body, to lie back down in his own bones. Crowley knew the prep work hadn’t been thorough when the blunt head of a cock pressed insistently at his entrance, but it had been enough, and when he felt it sink in, felt himself being split and stretched open inch by stinging inch, he came back to himself.

A hand wound its way into his hair and tugged as its owner began to thrust with Crowley on his hands and knees. “Fuck,” Crowley breathed, “pull harder.” He instructed. He felt himself being pushed back into himself with every snap of skin on skin. Jeremy grunted behind him. Crowley took his cock in his hand and began stroking himself. A grunt and a stilting of hips let Crowley know when his partner finished and he stroked his cock quickly, through a tight fist, until he spilled into his hand. He hadn’t been close, it had probably taken just as long as the rest of the act.

He told Jeremy he’d call him a cab, he didn’t usually have people stay.

“That’s fine mate,” he’d said and gave Crowley his number in case he ever wanted to do it again. He wouldn’t.

Crowley rinsed himself off and crawled into bed, finally feeling grounded. He drifted off into a peaceful and dreamless sleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

***

Aziraphale had a little spring in his step Saturday afternoon. He was looking forward to a good lunch of sushi with Anathema and other pleasant company. He’d had a pleasant enough day Friday and he’d had some time to calm down after the shock of seeing someone from a past life. All things considered he really did find Crowley quite handsome, and he had been a delightful conversational partner. Not that he was having any feelings beyond that. Absolutely not, wouldn’t do. Couldn’t go moony over someone you’d just made the proper acquaintance of, could you? And Aziraphale absolutely couldn’t do it over this particular man. He had his reasons, and he’d be doing no further self-reflection on the matter at present. It didn’t stop the thoughts from coming, either way.

_Red hair shines under the fluorescent lights in someone’s living room. He’s just come in from the kitchen, a drink of something clutched in a plastic cup in his hand. He can’t take his eyes off those crimson waves, spilling just over his shoulders, tied half back, revealing an angular face with cheek bones that might have been sculpted by God. He’s staring, he’s been caught staring. The man catches his eye and gestures for him to come sit down. Aziraphale’s cheeks color, but he does it. _

_“Aren’t you a pretty sight,” the man croons at him, face flushed and drink sloshing in his hands. “What’s your name sweet thing?” _

_He puts a hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, “Az-Aziraphale.” Aziraphale’s rooted to the spot, drowning in eyes the color of the honey he so enjoys in his tea—liquid gold. “Aziraphale?” The man (Crowley he learns as someone shouts something at him from the other side of the room and Crowley shouts back to leave him alone, he’s busy) asks._

_ “Well that’s a mouthful.” His lips curl into a slow smile and Aziraphale’s eyes trace their movement from start to finish. _

_“Nothing wrong with that—it’s beautiful.” Crowley’s eyes wander over Aziraphale’s face, “Beautiful.” Aziraphale gulps thinking to himself, the name, or me? And then Crowley leans in, breath hot in his ear, long fingered hand heavy on his thigh, “Besides, I’m good at having things in my mouth.” Crowley pulls back, giggling. Someone tells Aziraphale he doesn’t have to let Crowley bother him, he’s pissed, he can find somewhere else to sit. Aziraphale stays right where he is._

Aziraphale tidied up around his flat a bit and called himself a cab, wiggling when he grabbed his coat on the way out the door. Sushi always put him in a good mood. When he arrived at Darcan’s, he spotted the Bentley parked out front. He went in and found the table Crowley was already sitting at.

“Afternoon.” He greeted. Crowley looked up from his menu, shades pushed up on his head, honey gold eyes on full display. Aziraphale’s heartbeat quickened and threatened to pound through his chest, breaking all his ribs as it went.

“Afternoon.” Crowley returned.

“Just waiting on Anathema and her beau, then?” Aziraphale asked, pulling up a menu and taking his readers out of his pocket.

Crowley hummed in agreement. Aziraphale felt his phone buzz in his pocket at the same moment Crowley’s shook on the table. Crowley picked it up, brows raising as he read the text.

“Looks like it’s just going to be us actually.”

Aziraphale read a version of the same text Crowley had received. _So sorry, not feeling well, ate something bad yesterday, Newt and I’ll take a rain check. Enjoy yourself :)._

“Well that’s fine,” Aziraphale’s heart begged to differ, but he ignored it, soldiering on, “I hope she feels better soon, the poor dear.”

Crowley nodded his agreement, locking his phone.

“Sorry, don’t mean to pry, but is that Millais’s _Ophelia_ on your lock screen?” Aziraphale’s voice brightened with excitement as he pointed to it.

“It is.” Crowley confirmed, “You’re familiar?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale set his menu down, gushing, “_Hamlet_ is one of my favorite plays!”

Crowley cocked a smile, setting his menu aside. “I prefer the funny ones, but I’ve been thinking about this one a lot, recently. Read it again a couple weeks ago.”

Aziraphale wiggled excitedly, an action that did not go unnoticed by Crowley, “You have to tell me, what do you think about the more modern discourse surrounding Ophelia and Gertrude?”

They got rather enthralled in their conversation about Hamlet and were taken by surprise when the waiter showed up to take their orders. Neither of them had given their menu a second glance. Crowley asked after the owner, and he came out from the kitchen, giving Crowley a firm pat on the shoulder and telling him he’d get them a plate of several different rolls sent out.

“I got him divorced from his ex.” Crowley said by way of explanation when asked how it was he came to know the owner of an upscale sushi restaurant.

They chatted all the way through their meal, talking about art and plays and this or that cultural phenomenon. Aziraphale gave happy little sighs and moans around mouthfuls of delicious fish. The owner came back out once they’d finished their meal, told Crowley it was on the house. Crowley left a hefty tip for their server and walked with Aziraphale to the parking lot.

“Give you a lift?” Crowley paused with Aziraphale just outside the doors.

“Actually, a lift would be fantastic, if you don’t mind driving to Soho.”

“Not at all” Crowley assured. “I like driving, and it’s not that far.”

Crowley didn’t really do what Aziraphale would call driving, more like speeding. He distracted himself from the scenery passing them by alarmingly quickly by asking more about Crowley’s art tastes. They got caught up in conversation about Van Gough, one of Crowley’s favorites he learned, and before he knew it they were pulling up to the curb outside of Aziraphale’s flat.

Aziraphale stopped with his hand halfway to the handle. “I say, I think I owe you one for today.”

“’S nothing.” Crowley insisted.

“No, no, it’s not every day you get a complimentary meal of _exquisite_ sushi. Let me return the favor, I know a wonderful little Indian place, bit of a hole in the wall, but very authentic.”

“I like Indian.” Crowley kept his hands gripped around the smooth leather wheel.

“Splendid!” Aziraphale made to get out of the car. “Oh, I don’t have a way to contact you directly, shall we set a date and time?”

Crowley whipped his phone out and handed it to Aziraphale before he had time to second guess himself.

“Just put your number in.”

_Just write it on my arm._

The phone was sleek and felt breakable in his hands as he typed his number in and handed the phone back to Crowley. He felt his phone buzz, a text from an unsaved number popping up _Anthony J. Crowley._

“There, now you’ve got mine as well.”

It was a stupid question, but it came to his lips unbidden as he got out of the car, “What does the ‘J’ stand for?”

Crowley smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Good night, Aziraphale.”

“Good night.”

He closed the door and watched Crowley hurtle off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, this chapter had a mind of its own. It was fun to write. Thanks for reading!


	3. Spearmint and Basil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley took the car out of park, “Yeah. Yeah, alright.” He tilted his head, “Could do with some good wine. Tell me where I can park.”
> 
> Aziraphale had needed this. This sporadic, but not infrequent companionship. If Crowley was steadily growing around his bones in green, leafy vines and etching himself into Aziraphale’s soul—well, he pretended not to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit Crowley-heavy, the next will be a bit Aziraphale-heavy. Balance in all things :) Enjoy, lovelies.  
cw: there's talk of domestic and child abuse in the chapter

Anathema texted Crowley the next day, asking him over. He brought her soup and a thermos of warm tea, hoping to catch her in her lie. He knocked on her door, and a suspiciously well-looking Ana answered.

“I though you weren’t feeling well.”

She gave him a shit-eating grin.

“Well, I wasn’t, yesterday.” She opened the door wide enough for him to step through. He handed her his offerings.

“Thanks,” she took them, put the soup in her fridge and poured herself a cup of tea from the thermos. She offered him one.

“Already had enough caffeine for the day.” He declined, wasting no time in seeking out and sprawling across her couch. He looked around, “Fiancé out and about today?”

Anathema wandered around the couch to flop down next to him, flicking on the telly. She blew on her tea, sending little ripples skittering across the dark surface. “He’s actually delivering a cake for a wedding. Huge thing. Monstrous. He didn’t want anyone else doing it. Was afraid it’d topple over and be a pile of cake-y mush.” She shrugged her shoulders and added, “I’d still eat it.”

Crowley snorted. He watched her scroll through her streaming app and Crowley just caught the title of her selection before it started to load. “The Real Housewives of Orange County?” He wrinkled his face.

“I’m in the mood for trash. Newt won’t watch with me. I’ve got to take advantage.” She settled into the couch.

“Can’t say I blame him. What makes you think I’m going to watch with you?” The question was all for show. The trashy reality program looked absolutely delicious and just the sort of contrived drama Crowley could really sink his teeth into.

“Please, you love this crap.”

Crowley grunted his assent and made himself comfortable, kicking his shoes off and swinging his legs onto the couch, resting them on top of Ana’s thighs. She was dressed to be at home today, sweatpants and a soft cotton shirt. They hadn’t gotten to do this for a while. Ana could probably sense how much he craved it—this basking in the presence of someone that loved you. He didn’t have too many of those.

“Newt’s not gonna be back for a while. The wedding he’s at is one of Aziraphale’s.” Crowley’s calves tensed across her thighs. He hoped she wouldn’t notice. But of course, she would, she was always particularly adept at noticing, picking up on feelings you were having that you couldn’t even put a name to.

“I didn’t want to go, it was a really stuffy crowd, black tie kind of reception deal.” She patted his legs, “Besides, you said you were going to come around and I’m dying to know how your sushi was.” She gave him a sideways look with a mouth curled into a cat-that-got-the-canary smile.

Crowley sat up, waggled a finger at her. “Oi, if you think that little stunt you pulled was _cute_—”

“Oh, blow it out your arse.” She sipped at her tea delicately, ignoring his spluttering. She arched a dark brow at him over her cup of tea, “Do you mean to tell me you didn’t have a nice time?”

Crowley scowled. “You know, when you asked me to describe the most attractive man I’d ever seen for you as I let you swipe through my dating apps,” he paused thinking of messages he’d gotten on said apps and never had any intention of replying to, “I didn’t think you’d be bringing the _bloody man himself_ with you to drinks!”

“I didn’t know you knew each other.” Anathema kept her eyes fixed to the screen, hands wrapped around her warm cup, her tone innocent. “Aziraphale’s nice, I thought you might like him. I just didn’t know how right I was.”

Crowley tossed a pillow at her, which she dodged, sloshing tea over the edge of her cup. He waggled a finger at her again, not having anything to retort with. They settled after that, watching a woman gesture wildly at another woman, screeching in strange American accents on the screen. Crowley let his legs go heavy across Ana’s thighs. Relaxing into her soothing rubbing and letting her warmth seep through his jeans and skin all the way to his bones. He met her at university, getting a law degree he’d never even thought to dream of several years prior. His last foster home, the woman there had taught him to garden. Taught him that anything could be beautiful, could grow, could flourish with the right kind of care. If you remembered to water it, to feed it, to turn the soil every so often, it would grow. Anything could thrive if you knew how to love it right. He was only with her for a short couple of years, but she had known how to love him right. Ana had (still does) known too. He couldn’t take too much—to heavy a hand with the waters of affection would drown him. He was like a succulent, just a little every now and then, and he would soak it all up, hold it heavy in his appendages.

He had rolled up to his freshly attained community garden plot, gotten everything spread out around him, before realizing he’d forgotten his trowel. He had a bag of potting mix, his tomato and pepper starter plants, his seeds for squash and gourds and some flowers, a hoe, some mulch and various other gardening tools, but not his trowel. Ana had been bent over her plot of various herbs and flowers, not far away down the same row. She had a trowel in her hands, patting the earth down over some newly sown seeds.

“Excuse me, might I borrow that when you’re done?” she’d eyed him, looked to his bare plot, back to him. She walked over to his plot with him, helped him get it all sorted.

“I’m Anathema,” she’d said, poking holes in the newly distributed mulch for his squash seeds, “family name” she’d added, unprompted. Ana, she became to him, one of the few people she permitted to call her by the shortened version of her name.

“Crowley,” He extended a dirty hand to shake one of her also dirty hands.

She’d helped him finish his little plot and then they wandered back to hers, packing up. He asked her about her plants, herbs and flowers all having some kind of occult purpose.

“Basil, for protection and wealth,” she pointed it out. “Plus, it tastes good.” She plucked a few leaves off the plant. She wandered over to another leafy green plant, plucking some of it’s leaves off too. “Spearmint, for healing and love.” She wrapped the leaves together with some twine she pulled out of her gardening bag, shoved the bundle into Crowley’s hands. “It works best if you burn them.”

Crowley hadn’t known what to think about occult habits. They were certainly interesting, and she was certainly great company. But he _was_ dirt poor, he did feel in need of protection, out in the world without one of the only homes he’d ever felt safe in, and he _did_ need healing, and God knew how he _craved_ love. He chalked the odd bundle in his hands up to luck. He burnt it as soon as he got home, and the leaves had dried out enough.

Maybe he needed more water now. He’d gotten better at accepting love, better at soaking it up and what he’d been used to get previously just wasn’t enough anymore. Besides, one of his most reliable sources of it had been tied up recently, busy with her boyfriend, then busy with her fiancé, planning her wedding.

He had been wilting lately. Not enough sun. Not enough water. He could see that now, basking in Ana as he was.

He watched her give him a slow once over. “You look tired, Anthony.”

He exhaled, preparing to be honest. He wanted to be honest. He wanted to tell someone how drained he felt, how his job was swallowing him, drinking from him and ebbing away his life force. He scrubbed his face.

“I am tired.”

She rubbed over his shins, soothing, waiting for him to continue.

“Lots of banged up families. Lots of banged up spouses. Don’t want to make any of them pay, have to make some of them. Sometimes the ones that pay the highest, the ones good old Gabe hands down to me because they’re otherwise _indefensible_ are the ones doing the bloody beating.”

He was one of the best at those difficult ones, knowing just where to pick, just where to focus to make the unforgiveable seem the tiniest bit human, the tiniest bit forgivable. Gabriel loved him for it. He was good at it, and he hated it.

“And I’m supposed to feel good about myself when I get them weekend visitations?”

Anathema nodded, not in agreement but in empathy.

He told the kids he saw sometimes, the real banged up ones-- the one’s whose cases he always felt compelled to work-- that therapy helped. They always resisted. None of them ever wanted to go. He went with them sometimes, to their first appointments. It reassured them to have him there, to have someone with them that had done it before. Therapy had helped him, and he’d be a hypocrite if he told them to do something he didn’t do himself. He saw his therapist probably once a month. Her words from their last appointment echoed in his head: “Take care of yourself like you would your plants. Give yourself what you need.”

It was so much easier to lavish attention anywhere but on himself. He was still working on that, but he was getting better.

“It’s probably especially taxing on you, having been one of those kids.” Crowley made a grunting noise that was neither confirmation nor denial. “You’re risking retraumatizing yourself every time you go through one of those cases.”

Crowley didn’t take his eyes off the screen and the women with unnatural orange tans and their fingers with stacked rings. “Now you sound like my therapist.”

Ana scoffed. “Definitely not qualified for that. Just a concerned party.”

“I’ll be fine. Just need to recharge, as it were.”

Peace descended upon them. Well as much peace as was possible when watching a Real Housewives program.

“You want to order something in?” Anathema asked after the first couple of episodes had rolled by, Pizza?” she asked hopefully.

Crowley sat up. “Yeah, anything’s good with me.” He went to the kitchen to pour himself some of the tea he’d brought. He snatched a blanket off a nearby chair on his way back to the couch, wrapping himself up in it and nestling back into his place.

“So, Aziraphale…” Anathema broached the subject of her curiosity, waiting to see if he would offer her anything unprompted. When he didn’t, she asked, “How did you know him?”

Crowley sighed, considered rustling up some whiskey to put in his tea. “Same Master’s program. He ran around with Gabriel, think they were contracted at the same firm for qualifying before that. Anyway, I knew Gabriel, Gabriel knew him, we knew people who liked to throw parties with all their law school friends.”

Crowley bundled himself tighter in his blanket. “Didn’t know him that well, really.”

_Crowley remembers waking up one morning after a party. He looks at his arm, trying to make out the smudged numbers written there in sharpie. Someone had spilled Vodka all over his arm, trying to drunkenly pour shots. The last two numbers were smudged when he dried his arm off. It’s fine, he thinks. He’ll see him around, he can always ask Gabriel. He finds he can’t wait until the next party, asks Gabriel the next time he sees him, asks if Aziraphale’s around, if he knows where he can find him. “Aziraphale’s not around, no one’s seen him.” He says it with a sad voice and a strange look in his eye that doesn’t quite match. It unsettles Crowley. He tries the number on his arm with every combination of the last two digits, with no success. He asks Gabriel if anyone’s been able to reach him. He says no. _

***

Aziraphale walked to the quaint little Indian place around the corner from his shop. He’d just closed up for the day and was happy to be on his way to a good meal. One of his brides today was a bit of a mess. She’d lost some weight without meaning to and now her dress needed to be altered again, and she was in crisis about the tablecloths not matching the flowers or some such ridiculous thing. He was good at soothing nervous brides. It helped that he had a healthy cache of alcohol stowed away in a cabinet in his office. A heavy-handed Irish coffee or a nice hot toddy always settled them right down, made them easier to deal with. He mused on this as he walked into the shop. The counter girl waved to him, led him to his favorite table. He told her he was expecting one more and she came back with an extra menu. Crowley sauntered in not long after. Aziraphale did his best to keep his gaze trained above the waist, deliberately distracting himself from the sinuous swaying of the man’s hips. No where Aziraphale can place his gaze along Crowley’s body is really safe, though. Some areas are just less safe than others.

Crowley sat in the wooden chair across from him, flipping his shades up. The baring of his eyes made Aziraphale’s breath catch on its way out of his body, balled up in his throat. He sprawled, as best as one can sprawl in wooden chair much to small to contain the multitudes of _leg_ the man possessed. He picked up his menu, gave it a cursory glance before setting it back down again.

“Alright, so what’s good here.” Crowley skipped over any kind of preliminary small talk or greeting.

Aziraphale set his own menu down. “Well, that depends on what you like, my dear.”

Aziraphale reddened. There was nothing unusual about the utterance of ‘my dear’ for Aziraphale, but Crowley didn’t know that. He decided not to think about it.

“Chicken’s my usual go-to.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Well then you really can’t go wrong. Everything’s quite scrumptious in that department.”

He wiggled happily in his seat, thinking about his favorite chicken tandoori dish. “Oh, but it can be rather spicy, if you’re not careful.”

Crowley made a face, “Don’t do well with spicy.” He curled his lips back, revealing his rows of white teeth and sharp canines.

“The tikka masala’s always good. And a safe bet in the spice department.”

They talked happily until their food arrived and then past. They had started talking animatedly about art again.

“Which period d’you prefer?” Crowley asked, picking at his food.

Aziraphale took a delicate bite of his dish, holding the bite in his mouth and savoring it before slowly chewing and letting out a little noise of satisfaction.

“I’m quite partial to the Renaissance painters.” He took another bite, chewing it just as slowly as the first. “And you? What do you prefer?”

“I like the Romantics, myself.”

Aziraphale learned that Crowley liked Goya, especially some of his darker works. They were still deep in conversation when their meal was finished and the bill was dealt with. Feeling rather full, Aziraphale asked Crowley if he fancied a stroll. They walked to St. James park, stopping to look at the ducks. Their topic of conversation shifted from painters to musicians. Aziraphale liked Tchaikovsky, Crowley favored Dvorak and Smetana.

“Actually, I’ve got some tickets to the symphony. Got ‘em from a client, didn’t want to go by myself and Ana’s not much for the symphony. Don’t suppose you’d be interested?” They were on their way back to Soho now, headed in the direction of Aziraphale’s flat and the Bentley’s parking spot.

Aziraphale’s heart hammered in his chest. He could feel it beating in his head. “Well, I’d hate for them to go to waste. Consider me interested.” 

It was the beginning of the month. The symphony wasn’t until closer to the end of the month. They filled the space in between with sporadic meetings, generally over food. Always saying some variation of, “well, you got the last one, it’s only fair I get the next one, my treat, where do you want to go?” They were certainly _not_ dating, not courting, not whatever else you preferred to call it. It was nothing but platonic. It simply felt nice to converse with someone that wasn’t a client or Anathema and who held a similar appreciation for the arts. Even if they did disagree about whether Shakespeare’s tragedies or comedies were better. The tragedies. The tragedies were definitely better.

Aziraphale walked back into the shop after popping out for some tea and a quick bite around lunch time. He had left the shop in the hands of his capable assistant. She was on the phone, arranging appointments. She looked up, waved him over and handed him a file. Her tightly curled natural hair danced around her face as she shook her head at something the person on the other end of the phone said. Aziraphale sat down in his office and looked the file over, frowning. It was a preliminary profile for a new couple. It appeared they were deeply religious and wanted a ceremony that reflected such. Aziraphale considered himself more spiritual than religious. He’d had a deeply religious upbringing and didn’t feel any drive to take it with him into adulthood. His relationship with the Higher Authority was completely between himself and They, and no one else need intercede. Nevertheless, these kinds of couples always made him a little nervous. There were several other wedding planners in the city they could find that weren’t known for their particularly fabulous queer weddings.

Most people could infer an idea of his sexuality upon meeting him. If they cared to do such things. Or take note of some of his jokes. A bride to be had fawned over the centerpieces he’d designed and selected for her. The groom teased him, “trying to steal my wife?” Aziraphale had responded with something along the lines of, “Oh, me, heavens no, I think perhaps you’ve got the wrong shop.” And besides, he wasn’t trying to hide anything—anymore. Still, a few couples had been drawn in by the whole named-after-an-angel thing and been in for a bit of a surprise upon their first meeting. The walls of his shops were plastered with pictures of every kind of couple imaginable smiling and kissing in frames.

His nerves settled a bit a few minutes into their meeting when the couple doesn’t leave screaming profanities and threatening to leave bad reviews for the shop on Yelp. (It’s happened before.) The couple seemed nice enough. He produced a binder with pages on different churches in the area with pictures and pricing. He let them flip through it, making note of which ones seemed to catch their fancy. He gave them a checklist with a suggested timeline—when to book a venue, when to decide on a cake, when to pick a florist—and left them to schedule their next appointment with his assistant.

He had dinner with Crowley a few days later. He’d been running some case notes across town and popped into the shop before closing. They had Italian. The food was good and the wine was simply _awful_.

“Is it possible to burn wine?” Crowley asked, very much looking like he wanted to scrub the taste off of his tongue with a napkin.

Aziraphale did think the ‘hints of smokiness’ were a bit overwhelming. He’d seen his favorite couple of the moment, Eugene and Thomas, this morning. They’d brought a bottle of Merlot with them that Aziraphale ached to get on his tongue to replace the travesty of a wine that was currently coating it. It was Aziraphale’s turn to pay. They walked out of the restaurant. Aziraphale had let Crowley give him a lift in the Bentley. He found the other man’s driving to be just short of terrifying. He seemed incapable of keeping to the posted speed and stopped the way an amusement park ride might slow you down and stop you—with a definite and abrupt lurch. He swerved to turn and change lanes just as abruptly.

“Drop you at home, angel?” Aziraphale knew he meant it to tease and not as an endearment, but his heart fluttered harder and faster every time he heard it all the same. He thought about what was most assuredly an astounding bottle of Merlot waiting for him in his kitchen. Eugene never disappointed with his choices. When Crowley pulled up to the curb in front of his flat, he hesitated.

“I, uhm—I’ve got a bottle of wine, just got it today, want to see if it’s any good?” He held his breath as he waited for Crowley’s reply. The seconds seemed to turn into hours.

Crowley took the car out of park, “Yeah. Yeah, alright.” He tilted his head, “Could do with some good wine. Tell me where I can park.”

Aziraphale had needed this. This sporadic, but not infrequent companionship. If Crowley was steadily growing around his bones in green, leafy vines and etching himself into Aziraphale’s soul—well, he pretended not to notice.

***

It was a Monday morning, Gabriel walked into Crowley’s office, without knocking, and set a heavy case file down on his desk.

Crowley stopped typing, eyeing the retreating figure disdainfully. “Morning to you, too!” He shouted at his back. He groaned, flipped through the case, giving it a quick once over. Custody battle. Man wanting visitation rights with his kid. The wife claimed he was abusive. He scrawled a note to get in contact with the wife’s legal team, see if they had any proof. He put his face in his hands. This was not the kind of case he wanted to deal with right now. Crowley had a meeting that afternoon with a woman desperately wanting a divorce. There was nothing uncommon to Arches law firm about that. But her situation was unique. He’d spoken to her on the phone briefly. She’d been separated from her husband for years. She had one son, aged 11. His father, her estranged husband, had been abusive. They’d run away, made themselves disappear. The problem now was that she’d met someone, and she wanted to get married. She couldn’t do that unless she got divorced. Something told Crowley that her estranged husband was going to be a trifle uncooperative with a divorce. Probably wouldn’t just agree to sign the bloody papers and let everyone move on with their lives.

He met the woman that afternoon in a private conference room, one without any windows and a heavy, soundproof door. Deirdre Young was a slight, blond woman, but she carried steal in her eyes. Crowley sat across from her, asked her some questions. Young was an alias, the last name of her new partner that her and her son Adam had been using. Her previous partner, Luciano ‘Luci’ Morningstar, was a rich bastard. Crowley told her Luci would hire the best legal team he could find. He laid it all out for her. Her odds of winning and what it would take to get there. She said she understood, and she’d do whatever it took. He looked in her eyes and saw in them it was true. He worked on her case for the rest of the week, gathering as much information as he could. He got hospital records, for both her and her son. They showed the tell tale signs of abuse, different fractures at different times, multiple emergency room visits that had things like, ‘sliced hand open on broken plant pot while gardening’ or ‘landed on arm after tripping down the stairs’ listed as the causes of their injuries. When she asked about money, Crowley told her not to worry about it.

“Don’t give it another thought.” He caught her gaze and held it. “When we beat this bastard, you’ll have enough money to worry about paying me then.” Luci had been hoarding her savings and her and Adam had fled without it. That was aside from what she was entitled to in her divorce. They hadn’t signed any prenuptials and Luci was a very rich man. A very rich, very dastardly man that Crowley would enjoy leeching as much money from as possible. He set his jaw looking at an X-ray of one of Adam’s hands. Oh, but this was going to be hard. What was that Ana had said about retraumatizing himself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting into the meat of it now. I hope you're enjoying :) Thanks so much for reading.


	4. Dvorak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you alright, dear?”
> 
> Crowley groaned and moved his head gingerly side to side.
> 
> “Can you walk?”
> 
> “Mmhm.”
> 
> “Alright, let’s get you home and sorted. Do you have a problem with me driving, Crowley?”
> 
> Crowley gently shook his head no and handed over his keys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more Aziraphale heavy for this one.

Aziraphale straightened his bow tie in the mirror. His attire today wasn’t especially different from his attire on any other day, particular as he was about his clothing. His usual pair of trousers with a button-down shirt and waist coat were more than acceptable symphony attire. He met Crowley at the curb and settled into the nice leather of the Bentley’s seats. Everything about the car was vintage save one important exception—the radio. Crowley had a modern radio installed which Aziraphale thought was a rather good idea, knowing how much Crowley enjoyed listening to music. He was affronted by a cacophony of discordant noises coming from the aforementioned radio. It was most unpleasant.

“Afternoon, angel.” It was rather stormy looking outside, the sunlight clotted out by large clouds the color of slat, but his shades were firmly in place over his eyes. _Must have a migraine starting_, Aziraphale reasoned.

“Good Lord, what on Earth are we listening to?” Aziraphale grabbed onto the passenger side handle as the Bentley pulled away form the curve and tore down the street.

Crowley dug around, producing the album in question and throwing it into Aziraphale’s lap.

Aziraphale read the cover, ‘The Flaming Lips’, more confused now. Why would lips be aflame?

“This.” Crowley said, turning his head to look at Aziraphale, “This is the product of a 24 hour long jam session fueled by LSD.”

Aziraphale squeaked as the Bentley swerved in the lane. “Watch the road!”

Crowley shifted his focus back to the pavement in front of him, much to Aziraphale’s relief. Once he calmed, his curiosity got the better of him.

He cleared his throat. “Have you ever tried it? LSD, I mean.”

Aziraphale knew a bit about Crowley’s childhood and adolescence. Albeit he only had the broad strokes picture, but it was enough to know that Crowley might have had chance to partake in certain…illicit substances.

“Once or twice. Wasn’t really my scene.”

“Bad trip?” Aziraphale ventured.

“Yeah, pretty bad.” Crowley squirmed in his seat knuckles going white where his grip tightened around the wheel.

Aziraphale saw the change in his demeanor and sought to remedy his apparent discomfort.

“My dear, I apologize, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“’S okay.” Crowley flexed his fingers. “Just made me think of my parents, my dad mostly.” He pushed his hair away from his forehead, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over the scar that made a small gap in one of his eyebrows. If you looked closely, and Aziraphale had been trying not to, you could see that the scar continued down the delicate arch of his orbital bone and over his eyelid, just a jagged ghost of line, that could be spotted if you knew where to look.

“Well, I imagine that would be rather unpleasant.” Aziraphale offered him a sympathetic smile.

“What about you then, you ever give it a go? Couldn’t see your family approving of that. What with all the children named after angels and everything.”

Aziraphale gave a snort of agreement. “You’ve certainly got that right.” His parents would not have approved of such things, no. Especially not his father. He straightened his waist coat. “No, never LSD. I have partaken in a bit of the Devil’s leaf occasionally, though.”

Crowley groaned, “Don’t call it that, angel.” He shook his head. “Just say ‘weed’ or ‘marijuana.’”

The tone of voice was harsh, but Aziraphale could see the corners of his lips twitching with the effort of resisting a smile. Crowley’s phone buzzed on the console, moving itself across it with the force of its vibrations. Crowley picked it up, glanced at the caller and threw it down on the seat. Aziraphale saw who was calling and couldn’t stop himself from startling. He chastised himself. It was perfectly normally for coworkers to contact each other on their mobiles. Maybe not on a Sunday, but nevertheless it wasn’t unusual that Crowley should be receiving a call from Gabriel.

_Gabriel catches him in the hallway, waving a file in front of his face. “Hey, did you really not want this one?” he asks. Aziraphale shakes his head no. “If you’re sure…” Gabriel trails off and then slaps him on the shoulder, “Just wouldn’t want your dad to think you were slacking off.” He chuckles at himself, and darts back down the hallway. The case involves working closely with his father, and Gabriel seems to enjoy that far more than Aziraphale ever did. He doesn’t want the case. Gabriel can have it, can have all of his cases for all he cares._

The phone started buzzing again. “Just leave a bloody voicemail, fuck’s sake.” Crowley grumbled and then noticed Aziraphale. “You okay over there?”

Aziraphale comes back to himself. “Oh yes, just fine.” Lying’s always made him uncomfortable, even the small ones. He’d spent so much of his life lying, to himself, to his family, to the world. So much time wasted—lying and hiding. He can feel the acrid taste of the little lie working its way down his throat like cheap alcohol, mixing in his stomach with all the bitter pills he’s forced down over the years.

“Are you sure you don’t need to take that?” He gave the phone a pointed glance.

“Nah, he’s just being a twit. Nothing he can’t wait to hear until tomorrow.”

Aziraphale shifted uneasily in his seat and stared up at the dark grey storm clouds, feeling them resonate with something stormy and roiling inside himself.

*

Crowley and Aziraphale began meeting more frequently over the next month. There was a lot of, “oh, I’m in the neighborhood, what’s good over here, dear?” and “Running across town, tempt you to a spot of lunch?” flying back and forth between them. There was an exhibition at the British Museum, Aziraphale informed Crowley one evening, halfway through a bottle of wine in his living room. Would he like to take a gander? Aziraphale showed Crowley his collection of books. His flat was stuffed with them, and despite their best efforts, the bookshelves couldn’t quite contain them.

“I like to restore them. Breathe new life into them, give them a second chance, as it were.” He told Crowley, showing him a very old and tattered copy of a Wilde first edition.

Aziraphale had discovered that Crowley wasn’t much one for eating, but he did enjoy spirits. Aziraphale’s job was to fawn over the food, and Crowley’s was to sample the cocktails, coffee, or wine and let him know what was worth drinking. They’d gone for dinner, after the art exhibition, which was memorable not only because it was an extraordinary dinner of blanquette de Veau topped off with an exceptional crème brûlée, but because Crowley had taken an overexuberant drink of his Boudreaux and spilled a drop of it down his lower lip. Aziraphale remembered precisely how his tongue had darted out to catch the stray drop of red liquid, how he ran across his bottom lip, making it shine, how he had sucked the red stain from it, his teeth biting into the pink flesh. Aziraphale had gone home that night and taken a cold shower. When the cold water proved ineffective at purging the image from his mind, his cold shower turned into a very long shower. The dam broke. He was flooded by memories he’d been trying to keep at bay. _Crowley with a hand on his thigh creeping ever upward as they sit squished together on a couch. Crowley’s hot breath against his ear, against his neck, flirting. The way he giggled when he flirted back. The way he searched for the flash of red whenever he agreed to come to a party; he was agreeing more frequently now. His hands tangled in the crimson red hair, hungry lips against hungry lips, devouring each other in the backroom of Gabriel’s flat. They’d said they were going to go play table tennis. The table was there, but it wasn’t getting used._ He wrapped a soapy hand around his swollen cock, fucked his fist and worked his fingers inside himself until he came with a gasp against the neat white tiles.

Aziraphale begged off every time Crowley asked him to lunch or dinner for the following two weeks.

*

The symphony is doing Dvorak. “I got us tickets, it’s your favorite, afterall.” Aziraphale explains over the phone. When Crowley picked him up, he looked tired, sunglasses firmly in place and a scowl on his face. “I’ll be fine.” He’d said when Aziraphale had asked him if he was alright.

“’S just a migraine.”

Crowley looked worse and worse for wear as the concert progressed. By the time it was over, he was almost doubled over in pain with his head in his hands. Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“Are you alright, dear?”

Crowley groaned and moved his head gingerly side to side.

“Can you walk?”

“Mmhm.”

“Alright, let’s get you home and sorted. Do you have a problem with me driving, Crowley?”

Crowley gently shook his head no and handed over his keys. His lack of protest divulged how much pain he was in. Aziraphale helped him to his feet and let him lean heavily into him as they trekked slowly to the Bentley. Aziraphale didn’t drive often, but he did know how. It struck Aziraphale that he didn’t know exactly where Crowley lived. In their now three-ish month long friendship, they’d never done anything at Crowley’s. He had Crowley type his address in to the GPS application on his phone before instructing him to sit with his head braced between his knees, in a position that would keep it from being jostled around too much. Aziraphale tried to make it as smooth of a ride as possible, but he couldn’t account for the actions of other drivers. At one point someone had cut into the lane suddenly and he’d had to slam on the brakes. Crowley had whimpered and the sound skipped his ears and went straight for Aziraphale’s heart, sharp end first.

He extended a hand and rubbed circles into Crowley’s back. “_Oh_, my dear boy. Not too much farther now, almost home.”

Aziraphale parked as close as he could get outside of Crowley’s Mayfair flat. When they got into the building, he asked Crowley, “Stairs, or elevator?” not sure which would be harder on him.

Crowley winced, croaked out, “Elevator, live on the top floor.”

Crowley had covered his face with his hands, trying to escape the harsh fluorescent lighting in the elevator.

“It’s okay, Crowley. Come here, dear boy.” Aziraphale embraced him, tucking Crowley’s face into the crook of his neck, shielding him from the worst of the light, wanting nothing more than to protect him.

He got Crowley into his flat and laid him down on the couch. Crowley kicked his shoes off and threw an arm over his face.

“Thank you, angel. You can go, you don’t have to stay, I’ll be fine.”

Aziraphale huffed. Of course Crowley was trying to get rid of him. Unfortunately for Crowley, Aziraphale wasn’t particularly keen on leaving him in his current state.

“Really, ‘s fine, get them all the time.”

“Are they usually this bad?”

It was quiet as Crowley hesitated, giving Aziraphale all the confirmation he needed. He sat down on the couch next to Crowley’s head.

“My mother suffers from migraines.” Aziraphale said. He reached a hand toward Crowley’s hair, stopping before touching it, fingers itching with the urge to do something, to soothe.

“I wonder if you might permit me to do something for you. It’s just—it used to help her,” Azirapahlae swallowed, building up his nerve, “When hers were particularly bad.”

Crowley grunted his assent, or maybe it was a protest, Aziraphale couldn’t tell. He shifted closer to Crowley. “Just stop me if it’s not helping or you don’t like it.”

“Sit up a bit dear,” Crowley obeyed and Aziraphale scooted closer and laid Crowley’s head back down so that it was resting on his lap. He was blushing furiously but there was no way anyone would be able to tell in the darkness of the room.

Aziraphale’s fingers twitched around the legs of Crowley’s sunglasses, “Can I take these off?”

Crowley grunted again and Aziraphale gently removed them and set them on the coffee table. He sucked in a deep breath and then sunk his hands into Crowley’s thick, silky hair, digging his fingers into his scalp and massaging.

“Nngk, your hands are cold. Feels good.” The wrinkles around Crowley’s eyes where he had them squeezed shut loosened as he relaxed.

Aziraphale moved his hands to each of Crowley’s temples, massaging with the pads of his fingers.

“How long have you had them?” Aziraphale asked after a few minutes, still with his fingers buried in Crowley’s hair, loving the feeling of the fine strands gliding against his fingers.

Aziraphale’s eyes had adjusted to the dark, enough that he could see Crowley had opened his.

“Since I was around 8 or so.” Aziraphale felt Crowley’s shoulders shrug against the outside of his thigh.

“They get worse when work does.”

Aziraphale stared off in the distance, trying to discern what kind of objects Crowley had scattered around his flat from their profiles in the dark.

“That’s awfully young.” Aziraphale was picturing a young Crowley, small and scrawny, balled up against the pain of a migraine. As if life hadn’t already been hard enough for him.

Crowley stiffened against him. “Had a head injury. A concussion. They started after that.”

“My last foster, she had some pretty bad ones. Took pills for them. She took me to a doctor and got me sorted out with some too. Those helped.” Crowley’s breathing was slowing.

“My mother started taking pills for hers, too. Said they were a godsend.”

Aziraphale kept working for several more minutes, removing his hands from Crowley’s hair with a sigh of regret.

“Would you like some tea? Does caffeine make yours better or worse?”

“Better,” Crowley replied, sitting up on the couch.

Aziraphale got up and navigated carefully to the kitchen. “Will you be alright if I turn the light in the kitchen on?”

“Yeah, think so.”

Aziraphale made the tea and brought it back to the couch. He sipped his tea in the dark with Crowley, hands shaking with the memory of touching him.

“Pardon me for asking, but your uhm, your scar, the one over you eye, that wouldn’t have anything to do with the head injury you spoke of?”

He could hear Crowley taking a drink of his tea. “That’d be the one.”

“And what, I mean how—how is it that occurred?” The words came unbidden, they slipped from his mouth before he could stop them. Aziraphale could guess, could put the pieces together, but he wanted to hear Crowley say it. He wanted to know he was trusted with such information, this little piece of Crowley that other people didn’t have. Aziraphale had always avoided the dark. It made for foolish decisions, gave one a sense of anonymity, made everything so much easier to say—it was dangerous.

“You don’t have to answer that. If you don’t want to.” Aziraphale said when several seconds had gone by and Crowley hadn’t spoken.

“My dad.” The words hung in the air and everything was still before Crowley spoke again. “He uhm, hit me, with a glass bottle. On the head.” Aziraphale heard Crowley breathe in deeply through his nose. He slid his palm across the couch cushion, set it on Crowley’s thigh, a grounding weight. No one can see you in the dark. No one can look in your eyes and see what you want spelled out in them. No one can see the heat in your cheeks or the desire in your eyes. “The bottle broke. Had a good gash through my eyebrow. Eyelid, too. They stitched me up at the hospital and when I went home, it wasn’t with my parents.”

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s thigh and rubbed his hand up and down, hoping to soothe. He hit one of Crowley’s hands, where it was resting just above his knee. Aziraphale meant to snatch his hand away, but he wasn’t quick enough. He was processing what he’d just been told and distracted. Distracted by the feeling of heat radiating under his palm, the tiny shock of bare skin touching his bare skin. The contact he craved from another human. _I am starving for heat, starving for electricity, starving for the touch of someone I could love. I keep trying to fill myself to sate the gnawing at my soul, but it is never enough, nothing for it but touch, nothing for it but love, and I am not brave enough. It might be easier to let the hunger kill me._

Crowley turned his hand palm up, and slid it under Aziraphale’s, interlocking their fingers. Aziraphale closed his eyes, could feel his scars cracking open, old wounds beginning to bleed again. Or maybe they’d never healed. _It had been dark in that back room. Aziraphale had bumped his leg against the table tennis table. They fumbled until they hit the wall, the only light source was the sliver of light streaming in from the crack at the door. He thought perhaps he’d seen a flash of light, but it was gone as soon as it had appeard, and in the moment, he couldn’t be bothered, couldn’t think of anything beyond the lips moving against his._

They sat in the dark, neither one moving until Aziraphale took his hand back as cleared his throat. “Excuse me, dear,” he could hear the shaking in his voice, “But what the devil do you have in that room over there. They’re making the most curious shadows.”

Crowley got up, put his shades on and turned on a light. “Allow me to introduce you to my plants, angel.” Aziraphale had known Crowley liked plants, but he hadn’t known how much. The room was filled with a plethora of lush, vibrant plants. All of them looked healthy. He fussed with the leaves on the plants, avoiding looking at Crowley. He wished he had something to cover his eyes. He was sure it was all written there. He hated the dark. He hated the dark because it showed him just how much of a coward he was in the light. How he let fear consume him when he knew other people could see him.

***

Crowley lie in bed that night, long after Aziraphale had left, thinking about the feeling of his fingers running through his hair. He should have stopped him, shouldn’t have let himself know what it would feel like. It was all he could think about. Steady, strong fingers moving through his hair, each gentle tug sending shockwaves coursing through his body. He wanted to know what those same fingers would feel like stroking down his neck, his chest, his stomach. He took one of his hands, stroked up his thigh, remembering the heavy weight of Aziraphale’s hand there, the tingling of his skin that followed it. He was hard. He stripped himself, feeling too hot and filled with a need he was too weak to consider denying himself. He ran his hand up and down his thigh and then wrapped it around his engorged cock. He stroked himself slowly, tenderly, the way he imagined Aziraphale might. He was so fucking tender to him and that was the one thing Crowley could never handle. Fuck him against the wall, wrap your hands around his throat, pull his hair so hard it made his eyes water—those things would make him come. But tenderness? That shit ruined him every time. He gave himself long, languid strokes, thinking about the fingers in his hair and on his scalp, rubbing soothing circles into his back, rubbing soothing circles into his temples, letting it seep right through his skull and into his brain. His breathing quickened as he continued to stroke himself at the same gentle pace. He imagined Aziraphale’s hand instead of his own, how he might look into Crowley’s eyes with his deep ocean ones, the eyes that could hold so much. He came quickly, spilling hotly over his fist and stomach, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

Crowley managed to dodge Gabriel the next morning at work. He darted into his office, grabbed what he needed and took it to the coffee shop in the lobby. Gabriel wanted to know what he was doing with his custody case, the one with the abusive dad wanting visitation rights. He had a barrister picked out, a good one, one that could pull it off. But the trick was: Crowley didn’t want to win. Crowley didn’t know what he was going to do, yet. He was probably going to get shit for taking Deirdre Young’s case pro bono, too. The longer he could avoid that, the better. Apparently, Gabriel had been under the impression that she’d been paying him…oops.

He worked steadily until the buzzing of his phone on the table distracted him. It was a text from Aziraphale. _Running errands on your side of town, would you like to do lunch?_ Crowley typed out a reply immediately, hit send. _The Thai place just around the corner from Arches?_ _12:30? _He waited until he saw the answering _Sounds perfect, _light up his screen. He ignored two calls from Gabriel on his way to lunch. He walked the tiniest bounce to his step, excited to get away from the stress of work and see Aziraphale, if only for half an hour or so. Aziraphale was already sitting down at one of the only open tables, near the door. The Thai place did good business. A lot of the people working at the firm hit it up for lunch since it was so close. He set his sunglasses on top of his head, striding toward the table.

“You order yet?” Aziraphale shook his head no.

“Yellow curry, medium spice?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale gave him a beatific smile. “You know me so well.”

Crowley strode off to the counter to place their orders. He came back with two plates in hand and set one down in front of Aziraphale. Aziraphale at happily, making all the little noises Crowley so adored. They finished eating and Crowley put his hand down on the table, very near the place where one of Aziraphale’s hand was resting.

“What client errand brings you to my part of town today, angel?” Crowley inched his hand further towards Aziraphale’s extending the fingertips so that they almost touched. Aziraphale started to slide his hand forward as he answered, “Oh, doilies of all things, if you’ll believe it! Had a client that want a ver—” Aziraphale broke off suddenly and snatched his hand away from Crowley and hid it away under the table.

“Aziraphale, you alright?” Crowley asked just as a hand landed on his shoulder with an unpleasant thud and a squeeze.

“What incredible luck!” Crowley scowled, recognizing the owner of the voice and the hand to be Gabriel.

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you _all day_,” Gabriel paused, stared at Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale!” He clapped his hands together, the noise made Aziraphale jump. “Wow, it’s been _such_ a long time.” Gabriel pulled a chair up from a neighboring table, sat down in it.

“How the hell are you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, “I didn’t know you two were friends.” He looked between them, giving both of them a pompous smile. “What are you doing now a days anyway.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, taking note of the crestfallen expression and the inward curl of his body. The tilt of his shoulders away from Aziraphale. Crowley tried to catch his eye but couldn’t. Aziraphale fidgeted nervously, eye flitting from one surface to the next, never finding a place to land.

He cleared his throat. “I uhm, we—well, I uhm, have a wedding planning business.”

Gabriel chuckled loudly. “Imagine that! That’s just _delightful._”

Gabriel looked to Crowley expectantly, “Huh, isn’t that some wonderful irony. Couple of divorce lawyers having lunch with a wedding planner.” He laughed again to emphasize his point.

“We don’t _only_ do divorces.” Gabriel ignored him.

Crowley stared daggers through Gabriel’s skull.

Gabriel stood from his chair, jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Well, I’m going to go get my lunch. Crowley! Would really love to see you later today. I can’t wait to see the plan you’ve got going for Donald Christensen.”

Well, that had certainly put a damper on Crowley’s mood. Aziraphale was oddly silent as they walked out of the restaurant and headed their separate ways. He looked far off and he couldn’t stop fidgeting.

“I’ll get ahold of you later, shall I?” Aziraphale didn’t appear to have heard him.

“Aziraphale?”

The other man startled, “What? Oh, yes. Fine. Good.”

Crowley couldn’t reach him the next day, or the day after that. Crowley couldn’t get ahold of him for the rest of the week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter's going to be a doozy. We're gonna go back a few years...  
Thank you all for your reading and especially thank you if you've taken the time to comment. :)


	5. Philodendron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale’s heart pounded. Be brave. “That’s alright, I’ll just wait in the car.” Yes, he could do that, he could wait outside and Crowley would be back in an instant and they could get on with their evening. Crowley pulled up to the office, left the car idling, sliding out and telling him, “Be back in a minute, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends, I'm excited about this chapter, are you excited about this chapter? Wooo!

Aziraphale was the youngest of three children, all named after angels. His older siblings, Michael and Sandalphon, had been born with dirty blonde hair that turned brown with age. Aziraphale had been born with hair so platinum blonde it was nearly white, and age did nothing to darken it. Michael and Sandalphon looked like their father; Aziraphale looked more like his mother. His father was a lawyer with his own law firm, and he expected that all his children would naturally follow the same course. Sandalphon and Michael had no problems meeting this expectation. His father came from very religious family and led his own family in the same light.

When Aziraphale was little, maybe 6 or 7, he liked to sit in his mother’s lap and watch her flip through fashion magazines. He loved the bright colors of the clothes, the way the makeup made the models look like otherworldly beings.

“Why are her eyes pink, mummy?” He asked pointing a small, chubby finger at a model with bright pink eye shadow, wearing a bright pink dress in a Dior advert.

“Someone put pink powder on her eyelids, to make them pink like her dress. It’s called ‘eyeshadow,’ like what I wear on my eyes sometimes.”

They flipped a few more pages, Aziraphale would ooh and ahh as each new color-saturated page was revealed. He gasped as another page was turned, featuring a model wearing a bright gold gown heavy with jewels that looked like it was dripping off her shoulders, which were bare except for where her crimson hair gently fell over them in waves. Aziraphale’s mouth hung open in a tiny ‘o’ as his mum giggled.

“Do you like this one, sweetheart?” She asked sweetly, nuzzling her face next to his ear. Aziraphale nodded his head.

“She’s pretty, mummy.” He traced the waves of her hair with his fingers, entranced. Her hair looked like someone had spilled some of the communion wine at church all over it. Aziraphale liked to look at the communion wine too.

“You like red, don’t you?” His mother smiled into his fluffy curls, smoothing them with her fingers.

Aziraphale nodded solemnly. “It’s my favorite.” Reds, deep reds, were his favorite color. The color of the communion wine and the wine his parents sometimes drank at dinner, the color of cranberries and cherries and pomegranates and the Red Prince apples that were his favorite to eat. The color of blood he watched spill from a scrape after taking a tumble from his tricycle, too ensnared by the ruby fluid to cry out in panic or pain. That kind of deep red was so different from everything else in their home, filled with creams and beiges and stark whites that weren’t so different from the color of Aziraphale’s hair.

Aziraphale rand his tiny fingers over the model’s sharp cheek bones. “She’s like a painting,” he said with wonder thick in his voice.

“She’s beautiful.” His mother agreed. “These models are all just one example of beautiful people. They’re all thin with hip bones and high cheekbones. You know you don’t have to be thin to be beautiful, right my darling little Zee?” Aziraphale smiled up at his mother adoringly.

She pinched one of his chubby cheeks gently as she continued, “Why, your chubby little cheeks are the most beautiful thing in the world!” She leaned down to cover one in tiny pecks and kisses. Aziraphale wriggled in her grasp, giggling. “That’s why everyone’s always trying to get their hands on them!” It was true, people were always trying to touch Aziraphale’s cheeks. He had memories of people trying to pinch them or kiss them spanning from the time he was two years old. People at church always wanted to hold him and squish his cheeks. When it was his mother holding him, she’d always ask him if it was okay, and he’d always hide his face in the crook of her neck and shake his head ‘no’ and she would tell them, ‘sorry looks like the little love wants to be shy today’ and whisk him away. If it was his father, he always handed him over, letting strange people coo in his ear smush his face in their hands.

He only really liked it when his mum pinched his cheeks. She made noises like she was nibbling on them as she peppered them with kisses.

There moment was broken up by the clearing of a throat and a grunt. “You really shouldn’t indulge him like this.” Aziraphale stopped laughing at the sound of his father’s voice. He dad never wanted to do anything Aziraphale liked.

“He just likes looking at the colors, dear.” His mother answered, knowing it was more than that.

“He can read a picture book for that, no need to be queer flipping through magazines. It’s not right for a boy.” His dad glared at the magazine in his mother’s hands and she slowly closed it, covertly dog-earing the page.

“His toy cars and building blocks all have nice colors, he can go play with those.” His father spoke with the confidence that what he had to say on the matter was final.

His mother made sure to show him where she kept the magazines stashed away.

*

When Aziraphale was around 8, he was out running errands with his father, stocking up on printer paper and coffee cups for the office in Costco. Aziraphale spotted two men up the aisle, chattering and pointing between bags of coffee grounds. They were holding hands. Aziraphale had never seen two men holding hands before. Aziraphale could feel something in the back of his mind start to crack open. He tried to work out if the men were a couple. He looked at the way they laughed and teased and how one tugged the other further up the aisle by their joined hands. They looked no different from all the other couples he’d seen. They looked happy. Aziraphale smiled after them, gears in his mind whirring. His father scowled after them.

“It’s not right.” His dad muttered, setting a sizeable box of Styrofoam cups into the cart.

Aziraphale gazed up at him, confusion on his small face. “What isn’t right?”

“Those men, flaunting their transgression to the whole world. Right in front of my son? You listen here, those men are homosexuals. Being homosexual is a sin, it’s not right. It’s not the way God intended.”

Aziraphale was confused, but the tone his dad was using was tone of finality that meant he would accept no arguments. Aziraphale couldn’t get the men out of his head.

Aziraphale’s mother worked from home as a painter. She had terrible migraines that prevented her from holding any sort of regular desk job, and she did well enough as a painter and her husband’s income. Aziraphale waited a few weeks after the incident in Costco, making sure his dad was gone before asking his question.

“Mum, what does homosexual mean?” His mother put her paint brush down and patted the bench next to her for Aziraphale to sit down.

“It means you like people the same gender as you. Why do you ask, sweetheart?”

Aziraphale explained what he’d seen in the store and how his father had reacted to it. He found his eyes welling with tears as he recalled the vitriol in his father’s voice.

“It’s not wrong and it’s not a sin, that’s just your father’s interpretation.” She held Aziraphale’s chin in a gentle hand, searching his eyes with her own. “You know how your father is; his is the only opinion that matters.”

“It’s not wrong, Zee. It’s just how some people are made.” She lowered her voice and asked gently, “Do you think that might describe you, my darling?”

Aziraphale looked into her gentle blue eyes, the ones that matched his own, and found nothing but love there. “I don’t know.” He told her, honestly, with a quivering voice.

*

Aziraphale first met Gabriel when he was 11, when the Arches started attending the same church as the Havens. Gabriel was older, Michael’s age, 17 and starting a degree in law at the same university as her. Gabriel always unsettled Aziraphale. He seemed to always know what to say to please his father or make him laugh, which was more than Aziraphale ever managed these days. Gabriel’s dad had a law firm too, and Aziraphale was told he should really be nice to him because maybe he would be a great help to him one day, a great friend to have.

Aziraphale learned how cruel his father could be that year. How prejudiced towards the people he was slowly coming to identify with. A gay couple had come to service one Sunday afternoon, having just moved to the area and looking for churches to try. As Aziraphale also learned, theirs was not the sort of church that was open to such things. His dad had told them so himself. Aziraphale looked on in horror as his mum glared daggers into his father’s back. Gabriel leaned over to whisper to Aziraphale, “Bit extreme if you ask me, but hey,” he shrugged his shoulders, as if he was watching people disagree about where they should go to eat and not witnessing a heinous act of prejudice.

His mother sent him up to be with tea early that night. He could hear her and his father shouting at each other downstairs. He tried to drown the sounds of their argument out by pulling a pillow tight over his head. When he grew tired of forcing himself not to listen, he got out of bed and pressed his ear to the door, learning exactly how far his father’s hatred ran. His mother had a terrible migraine the next day. Aziraphale would sometimes massage her head the way she’d taught him helped and braid her hair. His dad stole him away on an errand instead, talking about what a horrible influence his mother was being.

None of this came to deeply personally affect Aziraphale until he was a bit older, 15 and in the throws of adolescence and puberty. He still glanced at his and his mother’s little cache of magazines from time to time, but now it wasn’t the pretty clothing or fanciful make up that drew his attention, though he still liked those. Now it was the sculpted bodies, taught stomachs, and smoldering gazes of the male models that occupied his attention. He confirmed his identity for himself when he felt his heart rate quicken, his face go hot, and a stirring in his groin he’d never experienced staring at any woman.

*

Aziraphale finished his A levels at 18. He wrung his hands over his university applications, not completely sold on studying law, but his father was paying and there was no way he’d pay for something like an English literature or history degree instead. Besides, it wasn’t like Aziraphale wasn’t well suited for law, he was detail oriented and intelligent and good in philosophical debates. There was one sole, big dividing factor between him and the rest of the barristers and solicitors in his family—it was that Aziraphale was _soft_. He’d seen his dad in the courtroom, and Michael—Michael, named after the warrior angel, the angel that lead Heaven’s armies to victory over Satan in the book of Revelation. Michael was every bit as vicious as her namesake would imply. Aziraphale didn’t think he could do what they did. All those personal attacks and nasty jibes to reputations for the sake of winning the case. He just wanted to stick to the facts, get to the truth of the matter, get to the heart—but that wasn’t always the job.

Aziraphale was thrilled when his father decided to take an extended mission trip with their church and take all his children with him. He left the firm in the capable hands of a partner and packed up his kids and headed to Indonesia to build houses and spread the good word of their faith. It gave Aziraphale time to breathe, a two-year reprieve on the question of whether he wanted his future to be law. His only regret was that his mother didn’t go with them. Her migraines had been getting worse and she had decided to stay behind and spend some time in the country. She’d told him that maybe she’d foster some kittens or sick farm animals to stay occupied.

Aziraphale enjoyed their time abroad. His father was always busy, and it left him with some free time to explore the city and neighboring villages. He adored all the new food he was able to try and the people he met, who were kind to him despite the language barrier between them. Other mission groups were also in the area, which was quite a popular locale for church groups, and Aziraphale enjoyed his time speaking with them. He met a boy in one of those church groups, an American. He and Aziraphale were drinking some kind of local spirit and sitting shoulder to shoulder at a table on a rickety bench, exchanging tales with a small group and generally having a rather nice time. The boy had leaned in closer to Aziraphale to ask in a low voice if he wanted to wander the city. A hand had found its way to Aziraphale’s thigh and his breath hitched in his throat and all he could do was nod in response. An hour later, Aziraphale found himself with his back pressed against a cold brick wall, head arched back, a mouth at his throat and a hand down the front of his trousers. His hands scrabbled for purchase in the other boy’s sweater as he gasped into the night. It made him think that maybe he could do this. That if he knew what he was and maybe his mother and no one else in his family ever knew, then maybe that would be okay. He and the American boy met like that several more times before the trip’s end.

*

Aziraphale did well at university. He was a voracious reader, and while he preferred literature to law texts, he was still very good at working through dense material. He flew through his course work and spent some time discreetly exploring and becoming more comfortable with his sexuality. He still hadn’t worked up the courage to tell anyone, not even to confirm it to his mother, who he was sure already knew. He had just finished his last exams and started looking into firms and programs for his LPC when his mother had the worst migraine of her life. The migraine, as luck would have it, wasn’t actually a migraine. It had been an aneurysm that had ruptured. She texted him that morning and he’d gotten to ride with her to the hospital, gotten to spend those last treasured moments with her. Aziraphale could still never quite think about that last time he told her ‘I love you’ without his eyes welling up and spilling over. He can’t hear her echoing, ‘I love you always, my darling Zee’ without remembering her features twisted with pain and feeling the ice cold grip of the panic that seized his heart when the doctor came to tell the family what had happened. His mother was gone and it was like his last true tether to the world was gone and he was floating, not really belonging to anyone or anything.

Aziraphale devoted himself to working during his LPC and he got it done without trouble. His father contracted him as a solicitor after, just like he’d done for all his children. After that first frenzied year, Aziraphale’s energy began to wane and his father showed him a degree of leniency, understanding he was still grappling with grief. Aziraphale slowly adjusted, getting used to feeling like half of himself, getting good at working with half of himself. He worked up to taking on a full case load and that’s when he decided that cooperate law wasn’t really for him. If he was going to carry on this way, leading this kind of half existence, he wanted it to mean something. Representing large corporations in their crusade to squash individuals and trample on worker’s rights wasn’t exactly doing it for him. He enrolled in a Master’s program, deciding to specialize in human right’s law.

His father actually thought it was a good idea, though not for the reasons Aziraphale did. His father was after the utility of having someone more versed in the finer points of ethics and human rights so that he’d have a better way at countering that when those principles were used against him. For his part, Aziraphale genuinely wanted to help people. His father suggested the specific program, told him he’d pay for it and everything.

“You know, Gabriel just applied to a program, different specialty, but good all the same.”

Aziraphale shuddered. Gabriel was still everywhere, and to Aziraphale’s horror, he’d gone on to date and become engaged to his older sister. He was working at the firm now, apparently old man Arches had booted him, told him he needed to stop riding on his dad’s coattails and go work somewhere else. He seemed to always be where Aziraphale wanted to be. He saw him in the hallways when he was going to pick something up from the printer, in the breakroom when he went to make his afternoon tea, in the elevator when he was leaving. His father couldn’t be happier with Michael’s engagement, he’d always liked Gabriel. Aziraphale got the impression that if his father could, he would’ve just swapped Gabriel out for him as a son. He got the impression that Gabriel really wouldn’t mind that. He supposed son-in-law was as close as either of them could get to having it the way they wanted.

*

Aziraphale could sense himself being edged out. He couldn’t care less, made himself an accessory to it, even. Aziraphale sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He looked down at the case file in front of him and then out the window, wishing to be doing anything but what he was currently doing. The case in front of him detailed the evidence against an animal organization that had hired the firm. A journalist had recently run an expose on the organization depicting various instances of animal abuse and connections to puppy mills. The organization wanted to sue the journalist and the paper for libel. His father was prosecuting the paper on behalf of the organization. He made a few more notes before getting up to make himself a cup of stress cocoa, giving himself a break and an opportunity to do something else for a while and serving to provide him with something delicious to consume. He plopped heavily back into his desk chair and resumed work, setting his cocoa down. Several minutes later, there was a knock at the door. When he looked up, Gabriel was already leaning over the desk; he hadn’t waited to be invited in.

“Is that the animal welfare case?” He asked, looming over the desk reading the case file upside down.

Aziraphale stared at Gabriel’s large hands spread flat on the desk in front of him. “Yes, hello Gabriel, nice of you to pay me a visit.” Aziraphale gave him one of his brightest fake smiles. Aziraphale sighed when Gabriel just gave him a fake smile in return. He turned the case file around on the desk and pushed it toward the other man. Gabriel read it for a few moments, flipping pages here and there before clearing his throat and addressing Aziraphale.

“You don’t happen to be particularly _attached_ to this case, do you?” He flicked his eyes up from the file and settled them on Aziraphale.

“No… I’m not, why, would you like to take it?” Aziraphale eyed him wearily.

Gabriel made a sweeping gesture with one of his hands, “Well, if you’re offering, I’d love to take it off your hands.” He flashed another smile, teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Aziraphale gathered all the case papers together and tapped them into a neat stack against the desk, putting them in the file and closing it. He dug around in a drawer for a flash drive and handed both across the desk to Gabriel.

He hesitated before placing the drive in Gabriel’s waiting palm. “They’re literal puppy kickers, Gabriel.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes and plucked the drive from his hand. “Well, maybe this whole ordeal will be a nice little wakeup call and they won’t do it again.” He flashed that too bright smile again--less of a smile, more of a baring of teeth—and made his exit.

Aziraphale’s father wouldn’t be pleased with him. He kept dumping high profile cases in Aziraphale’s lap, hoping he’d ‘rise to the challenge’ or some other such nonsense and Aziraphale kept handing them off to Gabriel, who was much more eager to take them. Mr. Haven liked Gabriel better anyways; they worked similarly, thought along the same lines. He couldn’t wait to be finished with his master’s, to go work somewhere else, to be out from under his father and Gabriel.

Gabriel had taken to trying to socialize more and more with Aziraphale, keeping himself in Mr. Haven and Michael’s good books. He invited him over to his flat for get-togethers with some of his law school mates and some other people in the master’s program. Aziraphale also knew it was a way for Gabriel to network, bring people he was interested in knowing better together, get them drunk, wind them up and watch them go. Gabriel may not have been Aziraphale’s favorite thing in the world, but the little soirees did get him out of his own flat, and there was always something good to drink. He thought they’d just be a thing he did a few times a month, get out of the house, schmooze with other legal students and young lawyers, and enjoy some expensive bottles of wine on Gabriel. And for the most part, they were—until he met Crowley.

*

Aziraphale wandered into the living room from Gabriel’s kitchen, clutching his plastic cup of scotch. He stopped as soon as he saw that first flash of brilliant red. The _deep_ red, the blood-cranberry-burning sun red that was his _favorite_. What he saw was a man that embodied everything Aziraphale considered most beautiful. The crimson red hair, falling in waves to his shoulders, little rays of artificial light dancing in it, the high cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood, the long frame sprawled over the couch. He had his hair half up, pulled away from his face. He was staring, Aziraphale knew he was staring, and he knew he’d been caught when the man turned his head and met his gaze, but Aziraphale couldn’t look away because his eyes were melted gold, the same as the gold dress melting off a red haired model in one of his favorite memories. Aziraphale felt the blood rush to his face as the man patted the couch cushion beside him, telling him to come sit down. Aziraphale reckoned his face was probably now very near the color of the man’s hair, but he ignored the burning in his cheeks and went to sit down next to him.

“Aren’t you a pretty sight,” the man crooned at him, face flushed and drink sloshing in his hands. “What’s your name sweet thing?”

He put a hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, “Az-Aziraphale.” Aziraphale was rooted to the spot, drowning in eyes the color of the honey he so enjoyed in his tea—liquid gold. “Aziraphale?”

“Well that’s a mouthful.” The redhead’s lips curled into a slow smile and Aziraphale’s eyes traced their movement from start to finish.

“Crowley!”

Someone yelled for the man, trying to get his attention. Crowley yelled back that he was busy and waved them off.

“Aziraphale. S’nothing wrong with that—it’s beautiful.” Crowley’s eyes wandered over Aziraphale’s face, “Beautiful.” Aziraphale gulped, picking up on the intended double entendre. And then Crowley leaned in, breath hot in his ear, long fingered hand heavy on his thigh, “Besides, I’m good at having things in my mouth.” Crowley pulled back, giggling.

Gabriel’s voice boomed from the kitchen, “Crowley! Stop messing with Aziraphale. Aziraphale, you really don’t have to let him bother you, he’s pissed, you can find somewhere else to sit.”

“Oi, mind your own business Gabe-y!” Crowley turned his full attention back to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale stayed right where he was.

From that point forward, Aziraphale made an effort to go to more of Gabriel’s little parties, even going when someone else was hosting. He couldn’t stop his heart from fluttering every time he caught the first glimpse of red hair, could hardly wait to get close enough to talk to him. They were drinking wine tonight, he poured himself a healthy amount of the dark fluid and edged his way to Crowley. His nails were painted black and he noticed a snake tattoo in front of his right ear that he hadn’t noticed the last time. Had he really been that drunk? As with their first meeting, Crowley caught him staring. Aziraphale blushed. Crowley reached out to touch one of his heated cheeks. Aziraphale didn’t usually like it when people touched him without asking, but Crowley’s cool hand on his burning skin didn’t remind him of them. It reminded him of his mother’s loving touch. It reminded him of the way she used to nuzzle and tease and kiss them when he was small. All at once he felt very sad, but that feeling was quickly replaced by a new spark of hope, coming from the half of him that had been dormant ever since her death.

“Just like an angel. Look at those cheeks, so rosy. So fetching.” He leaned into Crowley’s touch, nurturing that spark of hope, like the promise of being made whole again.

As the night wore on, Aziraphale learned that Crowley had just started his master’s, specializing in family law. He was working at Arches, and Gabriel’s father really liked him, thought he was very talented, which was probably why Gabriel kept inviting him, trying to befriend him to keep an eye on his ascent through his father’s firm. Aziraphale admired Crowley, the way he interacted with Garbiel. He didn’t walk on eggshells around him just because he was his boss’s son. Aziraphale inquired about the snake tattoo. Crowley said he’d gotten it when he was very young. He explained that he kept it covered with makeup for work.

“Some people think it’s ‘unprofessional.’” Crowley made little air quotes with his slender fingers.

Gabriel squeezed into the kitchen around them, looking disdainfully at the tattoo. “It is unprofessional.” He said flatly, grabbing another bottle of wine and turning to leave.

“Well, you’re certainly entitled to that opinion, mate.” Crowley bit back.

“I think it’s lovely.” Aziraphale couldn’t stop the words from leaving his mouth. Gabriel scowled at him as he left the room.

“Cheers!” Crowley shouted after him, turning back to Aziraphale. Aziraphale shifted towards Crowley’s right side, trying to get a better look at the snake, putting himself in between Crowley and the stream of light coming from the kitchen’s only light fixture. Crowley ran a hand through Aziraphale’s hair, startling him from his focus on the tattoo.

“Oh, you’ve even got a halo,” Crowley giggled, ruffling Aziraphale’s hair and swaying on his feet, “you _are_ an angel_._”

Aziraphale smiled into Crowley’s goofy gaze, gathering his courage before sweeping a tentative thumb up one perfectly sculpted cheek bone to trace the little snake. He thought of Crowley’s cool skin and the coiled snake often.

Aziraphale caught glimpses of Crowley around campus sometimes. He’d waved shyly at him once and Crowley had lifted his sunglasses and winked at him as he passed by. He ached for the other man. He was so desperately beautiful in all the ways Aziraphale loved best. He felt beautiful himself under Crowley’s golden stare, in a way that reminded him of his mother but felt completely novel and different. Their next gathering was at Gabriel’s apartment. Crowley was there and Aziraphale was delighted. Aziraphale milled around the room for a while, trying to keep his distance, not wanting to seem too eager. His heart had been pounding in his chest from the moment he first caught sight of Crowley. They played a few party games before people broke up into groups to chitchat and gossip amongst themselves. Aziraphale was pleasantly buzzed by the time Crowley eventually settled on the couch. Aziraphale went and took the spot next to him, sitting closer than was strictly necessary.

Crowley flashed a wicked smile, showing the points of his incisors. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, angel.” Aziraphale flushed at the use of the nickname.

“You mean to say you’re already sick of me?” Aziraphale teased sweetly.

Crowleys eyes danced dangerously. “Quite the opposite, actually. I wish we’d meet more, thing is, I don’t have a way of reaching you…” Crowley paused, tucked a stray curl behind one of Aziraphale’s ears, leaving a path of scorching skin in his wake. “Do you reckon I could have your number?”

Aziraphale’s body illuminated, he tried to stop himself from wiggling with happiness, but was only somewhat successful. He shifted, adjusting himself to cover it up.

“Of course, shall I just put it in your phone?”

Crowley pulled a permanent marker out of his pocket, “Nah, phone’s dead, here,” he passed the marker to Aziraphale, “just write it on my arm.” Crowley rolled up his sleeve, giving Aziraphale a smooth expanse of pale bronze skin for a canvas. Aziraphale gulped. He placed a hand under Crowley’s arm to stabilize it and wrote the digits of his number out in his neat script across the skin. He handed the marker back to Crowley. He capped it and shoved it back into the pocket of his too-tight jeans. Aziraphale surveyed the room. Most people were distracted, some were being corralled into the kitchen to play some kind of drinking game.

“You know, there’s table tennis in the back,” Aziraphale daintily cocked his head, indicating the direction he was referring to.

“Not very good at it.” Crowley replied.

Feeling bold, Aziraphale placed a hand in the middle of one of Crowley’s jean encased thighs, slowly slid it upwards, trying to make sure he was getting his point across.

He held Crowley’s stare, “Neither am I.”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand in his, and Aziraphale was already giddy as they stood. Crowley glanced around the room and leaned down to whisper in his ear, “I don’t think anyone will miss us, do you?”

Aziraphale shook his head. They crept toward the back room carefully pushing it open and closing it, leaving it open a crack and dark, just how they had found it. The instant the door was closed behind them, Crowley’s hands were on him. Aziraphale bumped the corner of the table with the back of his thigh.

“Ow.”

“Sorry, angel.” Crowley said the words into his neck, lips pressing a blazing line up his throat. Crowley guided him to a wall and pinned him there. Aziraphale buried his hands in Crowley’s hair, finally satisfying his long-held desire to _touch_. He angled Crowley’s head so he could seize his lips. Their lips moved together with a frantic urgency, hands wandering up and down the other’s body. The only light in the room was the little sliver coming from where the door was barely cracked open. Crowley caught his bottom lip between his teeth and Aziraphale couldn’t stop his moan. Crowley nibbled across his jaw to suck on the lobe of his ear, drawing several quieter moans. Aziraphale’s hands wandered to Crowley’s hips. He liked the way the bones felt under his hands. He pressed his thumbs into the skin just under each one and pulled Crowley closer, so that their bodies were flush against each other. Crowley groaned into his ear, the sound sending little jolts of electricity racing through his body. His cock was rapidly hardening against Crowley’s thigh. When Crowley shifted his position to get better access to Aziraphale’s throat, he could feel the evidence of Crowley’s arousal pressing against him. Aziraphale had never done this with anyone he was so attracted to before. He hadn’t ever done this with someone he _liked_ so much. He dragged Crowley’s hips against his own, delighting in the way it made him moan. They ground their hips together, little gasps and moans filling the room as their tongues slid against each other and their mouths moved in tandem. Crowley squeezed a hand between them to palm at Aziraphale through his trousers. Crowley swallowed his broken moan before it could echo out into the room. Aziraphale could just barely make out the glint in Crowley’s eyes as he looked up at him. Crowley dipped two of his fingers into Aziraphale’s waist band. He pressed their foreheads together. “This alright?” he asked, waiting for Aziraphale’s nod before unbuttoning his trousers and snaking his hand under his pants to wrap around his girth. He cried out into Crowley’s mouth. The hand wrapped around him felt so blessedly good. He could feel himself throbbing in Crowley’s hand.

Crowley hissed into his ear. “Oh, _angel._” He gave a him a few strokes. “You’re bloody perfect.” Aziraphale’s head felt so light he feared he might faint, it would make sense, seeing as all the blood in his body was being diverted between his legs. He slid a thigh between Crowley’s legs, pulling on his hips to get him to grind against it. Aziraphale lost himself in the sensations. At one point, he thought he saw a flash of brightness burst behind his closed eyes, but when he opened them, the room was just as dark as it had always been and he pushed it from his mind, only focusing on what was in front of him. They stopped their activities a short time later, not wanting to make a mess of each other before having to rejoin the group. Aziraphale refastened his trousers over his achingly hard cock. Crowley took one of his hands and brushed his lips against the knuckles before leading him back to the door.

*

Aziraphale hadn’t imagined the flash. It had been someone taking a picture through the crack in the door. A picture which they had proceeded to send to his father. Aziraphale was certain of who had done it, even though the picture had been sent anonymously to his father’s email address. There were only so many people who knew his father well enough to know what his reaction might have been to a picture of his son, attached at the lips to another man, who happened to have his hand in Aziraphale’s pants. It was a damning photograph. There wasn’t any explaining it away and Aziraphale didn’t even try. His father called him to his office, showed him the photograph. Aziraphale only got out one sentence before the tirade started and he cried through it: “I refuse to apologize for what I am.”

His father fired him. Revoked his funding for school. Effectively disowned him. He didn’t hear from his siblings, he was sure they were giving him a bit of distance, afraid of what Mr. Haven might do if he knew they’d been in contact. His father disconnected his phone line. He had never felt so wretchedly alone in the world. He was ashamed. He was ashamed that he was ashamed. He didn’t want to hate himself for being who he was, and he didn’t. He’d thought he could go on living as he was, exploring and satisfying himself when he wanted and hiding from his father. He’d thought that maybe one day, when the grief of losing his mother wasn’t so fresh, when he wasn’t so dependent on his father, when he was on his own two feet, he would tell him, to hell with the consequences. He liked to think he was the kind of person brave enough to make that choice. The choice had been made for him, ripped away from him before he ever had the chance to make it. He gave into his base instincts. What does any animal do when it is cornered and beaten without any hope of fighting back? He ran.

He packed up his little flat in a flurry of anxious limbs and burning eyes. He didn’t know what he was going to do or where he was going to go, but he couldn’t stay here. Not even if he wanted to; he wouldn’t be able to afford the rent. His tears spilled onto the cardboard boxes and his sobs echoed in the empty space. He went to see his mum. He threw his arms around the headstone and sobbed, surprised his body was still capable of producing tears. He didn’t go back to his flat that night, he slept on the bench in the path across from his mother’s grave, shivering against the cool night air. He spent a couple weeks wandering from place to place, sleeping on the bare mattress in his boxed up flat. He felt his grief for his mother anew, mingled with the freshly hollowed part of his soul grieving for his dead past life. He had enough money to float for a bit, so he floated.

One night spent wandering vacantly, he ended up in a café at 2 in the morning, one of the only places open in the neighborhood. It was dimly lit and decorated with neon signs and posters of tarot cards. There was a wall of books by the counter. He ordered himself some tea and plucked a book from the wall at random and went to a table in the corner.

He was so tired and he felt so alone. There was a couple at a table along the opposite wall, two men flipping through a book with pictures and laughing. One of the men was sitting with his legs crossed on the other man’s lap. Aziraphale’s lip quivered. He cried into his tea.

He was startled by a sweet voice and a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry dear, but I’m afraid if you keep doing that you’ll find that you don’t really fancy the taste of salt in your tea.”

He looked up to see a woman with blonde hair curled into wild ringlets, face coated with makeup. She rubbed circles into his back and dragged a chair over to sit down next to him.

“Now, I hope you don’t mind my saying this dearie, but you look a right awful sight.” She covered one of his hands with her own. “So how about I give you a minute to collect yourself, get us some nice warm cookies from the back, and you tell me all about it?” She patted his hand as she stood.

Aziraphale burst into a round of fresh tears, chastising himself for being reduced to such a state by something so simple as basic human kindness. When she came back, he was in a bit better of a state. She set his plate of cookies down in front of him.

“I’m Tracy, or Madame Tracy depending on how you know me. What’s your name then, love?”

Aziraphale found himself in the disturbing position of being so full to the brim of emotion and turmoil that he was willing to tell this woman he’d just met a great deal. He told her what had happened, about the photograph and his father. About how he wasn’t sure he’d wanted to be in law anyway.

“That’s alright then,” Tracy said, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “What do you want to be instead?”

Aziraphale realized with horror that he’d never thought about that before. He had no idea. Fresh tear tracks made their way down his face. Tracy rubbed his back cooing to him. “That’s okay love, no need to have it all figured out right now.” She let him cry the rest of his tears.

“Now, as I’m understanding it, you’ll be needing a place to stay.” She waited for his confirmation.

“It just so happens that I’ve got a room I rent out upstairs, tenants just vacated a couple of weeks ago. I’ve also been looking for some help around the café, my books need some sorting and I’m in need of some weekday help.”

Aziraphale dabbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. “That’s very kind of you, I think I’d like that very much. And I do like books.”

“I can see you’ve got yourself one from the wall, what you got here?” Tracy investigated the book as Aziraphale really looked at it for the first time reading the title, _Sodomy and Interpretation_.

Aziraphale turned bright red, cleared his throat, “I uhm, I didn’t—It was just the first thing I grabbed.”

Tracy nodded, “Oh, well it’s a good one if you ever want to read it.” She gestured to the wall of books, “_The History and Arts of the Dominatrix_ is another favorite of mine.”

Aziraphale coughed. He wasn’t sure what he’d gotten himself into.

*

Aziraphale spent a year working in Tracy’s café. She told fortunes and read Tarot cards and had an expansive collection of erotic novels, both fiction and non-fiction. Aziraphale sorted them for her and repaired some of her older editions that needed extra care. He manned the counter for the shop some weekdays and enjoyed meeting all the strange sorts that wandered in and out. The room he rented above the café was small, but comfortable. He could feel himself coming alive again, his empty shell filling, jagged pieces not quite falling into place, but at least being sorted into neat little piles with the promise that they might come together later. The couple he’d seen on that first night in the café, the ones flipping through the book, were regulars. Aziraphale enjoyed chatting with them, making himself a cup of tea and coming out to sit with them sometimes when it was slow. They were engaged and planning their wedding and their excitement was infectious.

He thought of Michael’s wedding with an uncomfortable little twinge of sadness. He was sure he’d still be invited, but he knew better than to show up. His father would throw a fit and he didn’t want to see Gabriel. He’d considered telling Michael about what Gabriel had done, but there was no hard evidence to tie him to it and it would be Gabriel’s word against his and he didn’t like the idea of that. Estranged brother versus fiancé? No, he didn’t like his odds there. What he did like, were all the wedding catalogs the couple brought into the café with them to flip through. Aziraphale hadn’t known there were so many pleasant details involved in planning weddings. There were colors, and venues, and tablecloths, and centerpieces, and decorations, and food, and cake, and suits, and dresses, and make up, and hair, and oh it was all just so _wonderful._

“I think I know what I want to do.” He told Tracy one day, washing dishes with her behind the counter.

He told her he thought he wanted to plan weddings. She’d thought that sounded wonderful and she knew someone in event planning, maybe she could get him a job, or they could help him get a foot in the door.

*

He moved out of Tracy’s little room a few months later, he’d been working in event planning with her friend for a month or so and through them had met a wedding planner looking for an assistant. Aziraphale jumped at the chance and was so far loving his new job. He loved all the little details. Loved how infectious the happiness of the couples was. He’d found something he was good at, and it had the added benefit of making him happy. Planning weddings didn’t make him feel burnt out the way law had, if anything it made him feel better, more complete. He changed his last name from Haven to Fell, putting this last distance between himself and his old life. A couple years later, he opened A.Z. Fell’s Weddings and Events.

*

Aziraphale had been ignoring Crowley for a week. He was still reeling from seeing Gabriel, jarred by his sudden and unwelcome appearance. He was going tuxedo hunting with Thomas and Eugene today. Their playful banter and casual touches stirred some great miserable beast inside him. Oh, how he missed Crowley. His bones ached with it. He missed his sideways smirk, his sharp tongue, and loud laughter.

“Are you okay Aziraphale?” One of Thomas’s hands at his shoulder brought Aziraphale out of his ruminations.

“Oh, yes, perfectly dear. Tickety-boo.” He gave him a smile he was certain didn’t reach his eyes.

Thomas turned back, plucked through a few tuxedos on a rack before continuing. “Only, it’s just, well, it’s just that you’ve been rather quiet today.”

Eugene popped his head over a rack a few feet over. “Trouble with your mystery man?”

“What, I don’t have any mystery man.” Aziraphale spluttered.

Eugene continued, unperturbed by Aziraphale’s declaration. “Anathema said you’ve got some man always whisking you off here and there for fancy lunch dates. Something happen with him?”

“Oh, I hope not.” Thomas said, picking a dark grey tuxedo out of the rack for closer inspection.

“Oh.” Aziraphale considered. “Yes, well no, I mean not exactly. _He _didn’t do anything.”

Thomas stopped his inspection, a surprised look on his face. “Oh dear, well did you do something?”

Aziraphale guiltily felt the outline of his phone in his pocket, thinking of all the unreturned texts and calls from Crowley.

“It’s more of what I haven’t been doing.”

Thomas and Eugene sat in the chairs in front of the display area, looking at Aziraphale pointedly and politely waited for him to continue.

“I just, uhm well—I just got a bit err, _panicked_, I suppose and I’m afraid I haven’t been returning his messages.”

Thomas tutted. Eugene shook his head sadly. “You know what you need to do?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“Apologize! Give him a gift, something he really likes, something heartfelt, always works on Tom. What does he like?” Eugene asked.

“Oh, well he has a lot of house plants.” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “Maybe I could get him some seeds and, and, oh, maybe a good bottle of wine. He does like wine.”

Eugene gave him a cheeky grin. “Oh, so you’ve been inside his house now have you?” Thomas swatted his shoulder.

As their appointment went on, Aziraphale resolved to be brave. He would reach out to Crowley, tell him he was sorry, they could have dinner together and Aziraphale would bring him a nice seedling or young plant to add to his menagerie. Yes, he nodded to himself, he could do that. He called Crowley as soon as the appointment was over. It went to voicemail, which wasn’t surprising seeing as Crowley was probably still at work.

“Hi, Crowley, it’s me. Well, it’s Aziraphale, that’s who I mean by ‘me,’ not that you wouldn’t know because of the number, oh, well anyways… I wanted to apologize, for my lack of responsiveness. I’m so sorry, I’ve been rather busy this past week and well, I was rather hoping you’d join me for dinner tonight? Anywhere you like, tell me the place and we’ll go. Well, hope to hear from you soon, goodbye.”

Aziraphale hung up and tried not to stare holes into his phone. Crowley replied not but 15 minutes later, sending a text. _Don’t worry about it angel, all is forgiven. Would love to go to that Italian place, are you buying? _Aziraphale’s heart did an exalted flip. He replied, _Yes, of course I’ll buy, does 8 work for you?_ He held the phone to his chest, relieved.

Crowley picked Aziraphale up for dinner and Aziraphale handed over a potted Philodendron seedling and bottle of vintage Pinot Noir.

“Really angel, it’s fine, you didn’t have to bring me anything.” Crowley assured him.

“Oh, but I wanted to.” Aziraphale huffed back.

Crowley smiled and nestled the plant into the backseat of the Bentley with the bottle of wine and they went and enjoyed their dinner. Things picked up where they had left sans the intimacy of the night of Crowley’s migraine. Aziraphale accompanied Crowley back to his flat, watched him get the new Philodendron settled in with some bigger, more impressive looking ones, and helped Crowley dig into to the bottle of wine. He took a cab back home and slept better than he had for the past week. They were back to their usual lunches and meetings when a couple weeks later, Crowley’s phone rang as they were zipping across town for dinner. It rang again and then a text popped up on the screen, prompting Crowley to reach for his phone and call back. He looked to Aziraphale when he got off the phone.

“Sorry, I’ve got to nip by the office and grab something that’s apparently urgent for a case, do you mind? I can drop you somewhere if you don’t want to come, but it shouldn’t take long.”

Aziraphale’s heart pounded. _Be brave. _“That’s alright, I’ll just wait in the car.” Yes, he could do that, he could wait outside and Crowley would be back in an instant and they could get on with their evening. Crowley pulled up to the office, left the car idling, sliding out and telling him, “Be back in a minute, angel.”

Aziraphale sat in the car, fiddling with the radio to give his hands something to do. A few minutes went by and he saw a figure emerge from the building. It came into view and he realized with a start that it was Gabriel. He sunk down as far as he could in the Bentley’s passenger seat, carefully watching Gabriel walk to his car. His heart pounded. _Be brave. _Oh, but he was trying. It just wasn’t working. To be near Crowley was to be near this old life. To be in proximity to Gabriel, always on the edge of his circle. To be near Crowley was to confront and step into this old life he had run away from. And ran he had, ran and not looked back. He tried not to look back. It was so _messy_— looking back. And now here he was, hurtling into it, diving headfirst into what was always an empty pool. The wounds never healed properly, the scars keep breaking open. He hadn’t seen his family in a decade and now he’d seen Gabriel twice in the last three weeks.

It felt like an eternity had passed when Crowley finally returned to the car, file in hand.

Crowley knew something was off by his demeanor, he always did give himself away. “You alright, angel?”

“Fine.” Aziraphale replied, feeling anything but.

They headed off to dinner where Aziraphale ate with none of his typical enthusiasm and he knew he was being uncharacteristically quiet. Crowley drove him home, pulled up to the curb in front of his flat. Crowley reached a hand across the armrest between their seats, barely brushing Aziraphale’s hand before he snatched it away.

“Angel—” Crowley said, hurt evident in his voice.

Aziraphale put a hand on the door handle, pulling it. He sighed heavily. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

He got out of the car, ignoring the hurt expression Crowley either wasn’t bothering to hide or was doing a very poor job of hiding. He paused before closing the door. “Good night, Crowley.”

*

Michael came by the shop that week. The bell rang and Aziraphale heard his assistant greet someone as they walked into the office. The answering voice sent a jolt down his spine. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in a very long time.

“Do you have an appointment?” His assistant asked.

“No, well you see I was hoping to see Aziraphale. I’m uhm, I’m his sister.”

Aziraphale stepped out of his office, legs feeling like jelly.

Michael’s face lit up when he came into view.

“Oh, Aziraphale, it’s been so long.” She walked towards him with her arms outstretched, but stopped short, resisting her apparent urge to hug him, for which he was grateful.

“Michael. How, how did you find me?” He cleared his throat, shook his head, “Rather, how did you find the shop, I mean.”

His sister looked around the shop, taking it in, before sitting down in one of the chairs at his planning table. Aziraphale took the seat opposite her.

“Gabriel said that he’d seen you.” Michael explained, “He said you were out with one of the juniors, and that you were a wedding planner, and I, well,” she turned her eyes to the ground, looking back up at him sheepishly, “I researched all of the planners in the city, looking for websites that mentioned your name. Your name isn’t actually listed on the site, it’s just A.Z. Fell, but a client mentioned an ‘Aziraphale’ in a review and I thought that just had to be you.” She folded her hands on her lap.

“Good detective work.”

She leaned toward him. “You changed your last name?”

He nodded.

She exhaled heavily. “Can’t say I blame you. Listen, I don’t have a lot of time right now, I just nipped in while I was on a bit of an errand and I wanted so badly to see you. Could we maybe, could we go for drinks or something—” She cut herself off, probably noticing how tense Aziraphale was.

Michael went to put a hand on his arm but stopped herself. “I won’t tell anyone I was here,” She assured in low voice. “I’ll give you my number, but you don’t have to use it, not unless you want to.”

She took a pad of paper and a pen from her suit coat pocket and wrote her number down, sliding it across the table to Aziraphale. She got up, prepared to leave.

“I just missed you, Aziraphale.” She smiled sadly at him and then left.

It took Aziraphale an hour for his brain to catch up to what had actually happened. It took even longer for him to process it and longer still to feel even halfway recovered from it. It was all crumbling around him, this careful distance, this new life, burning to ashes in his throat.

Aziraphale knew Crowley was trying to give him some space. He messaged less frequently that week and didn’t call at all. Aziraphale knew he could call, if he wanted, but he was losing his inner battle to keep all of his pieces neatly stitched together. A little voice in his head told him that was the problem, the pieces were all being held together with string, they never properly mended.

Crowley called him at the end of the week. “

Can we meet somewhere; you pick the place.”

Aziraphale picked the old bandstand in St. James Park.

Aziraphale arrived early, shifted from foot to foot and wrung his hands. Crowley’s voice startled him as he approached.

“Angel, hi.” Crowley shuffled under the gazebo, sunglasses firmly in place even though dusk was almost upon them.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale acknowledged, stopping his hands wringing by keeping them folded behind his back.

Crowley bristled a bit at the less than warm greeting, but continued regardless. “Look, I need a favor, some help. It’s kind of a big ask.”

Crowley was jittery, pacing back and forth.

“Don’t do that, Crowley.”

Crowley clearly wasn’t expecting that as an answer. He stopped pacing, stared at Aziraphale through his sunglasses. “Don’t do what?” Crowley asked, his voice beginning to take on a sharp defensive edge.

“Don’t drag me into this.” Aziraphale pleaded.

Crowley threw his hands up in exasperation, “You don’t even know what ‘this’ is yet!”

Aziraphale kept his voice carefully cool, “I don’t care what it is, it has to do with your work does it not?”

Crowley conceded, “It does, but—”

Aziraphale cut him off before he could finish his sentence. “I left that behind me for a reason, please do not forcefully bring it back to me.”

Crowley sputtered, clearly taken aback. “Yeah, you feel good about leaving then? Hmm, no regrets? None at all?”

That hit a cord deep within Aziraphale, sunk its claws in and _pulled_. “We can’t keep doing this, how must it look for someone planning people’s happily-ever-after’s to be gallivanting about, fraternizing, with one of the city’s best divorce lawyers!”

“Fraternizing! Fraternizing?” Crowley spat.

“Yes, or whatever you wish to call it.” Aziraphale fought to keep his tone neutral, but suspected he was beginning to fail.

“I’ve plenty of other people to _fraternize_ with. Half of those bloody people you’re marrying shouldn’t even be getting married in the first place! Give them a year, maybe two, maybe five, maybe ten if we’re being generous, and they’re coming to someone like me or Gabriel to get a divorce.” Crowley was moving again, gesturing wildly with his arms.

Aziraphale kept his arms tucked behind his back, feeling splayed open, defensive. “Oh, and you’re just so good at all the little details, all the sneaky ways to make your argument, all those aptly timed jabs, all those careful little character attacks. Does it make you feel better about yourself to believe that those relationships were doomed from the start? Lord, what a bleak way of looking at things.”

Crowley looked aghast. “At least it’s bloody realistic! Loads of those couples in your shop aren’t even happy when they’re getting married, they’re just doing it hoping they can slap a big old plaster on it and fix all their problems! How can you not see that? You’re so clever, how can someone as clever as you be so stupid!”

The claws tugged the cord loose. “I think we’re quite done here.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded small, even to his own ears.

Crowley’s voice softened and he stilled. “I looked for you, you know. I tried to call you, tried to find you.” Crowley’s voice cracked; the claws found another cord to pull on. “You just disappeared. Please, angel, please don’t do that to me again.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were full of tears waiting to be shed, threatening to spill over. He turned to walk away.   
  


“Please don’t follow me.” He whispered over his shoulder, but he was sure Crowley could hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorrrrry, this is probably the angstiest this fic will get, so rest assured that it's all going to go up from here. I promise we'll have a happy ending. Let me know what you think! And feel free to come chat at me on tumblr @[halfofmysoulistrees](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/halfofmysoulistrees)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's commented, I love and cherish your interaction! <3 's for everyone!


	6. Desert Wildflowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley had kept his sunglasses on out of habit more than anything really, but he was glad he had done so, not trusting what his reaction to Aziraphale might be. He longed to touch him, to hear the velvety richness of his voice. In the end, Crowley was glad he’d worn his sunglasses for an entirely different reason. It meant Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes watering, couldn’t see the first tears forming. They started to fall right as Aziraphale turned his back and walked away. Crowley stood in stunned silence, rooted to the spot with salty water dripping down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So sorry about the longer gap between updates! I'm a PhD student and the work really ebbs and flows and we've been in a bit of a 'flow' phase the past couple of weeks!
> 
> This chapter is also a little angsty and plot heavy, but fluff and smut are incoming after this chapter, I promise! We are hardcore earning our E rating in the following chapters!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's commented or otherwise interacted with me about this story! I can't put into words how much I love, love, love it. <3
> 
> content warning for discussion of a child's injuries and implied child abuse

The day of the meeting at the bandstand had certainly ended terribly for Crowley. For what it was worth (nothing, it wasn’t worth anything now), it hadn’t started off much better. It had been just a truly shit day, all around. Crowley had woken up with a pounding head and a heavy heart. He checked his phone, hoping to see unread messages with Aziraphale’s name on them, but there was nothing, just his blank phone screen illuminating his dark room. He stumbled out of bed, shivering against the cold air in the room. It was November, and London was starting to get cold in addition to already being generally _wet._ He took a pill and swallowed it with some water scooped up in his hand from the bathroom sink. He stood hunched over the sink for a long time before gathering the wherewithal to start the water and get in the shower. He sat on the floor and put his face in his hands. He felt the ache building behind his eyes and just _knew_ he was going to cry. That wouldn’t be good for the head. Not great for his bloody heart either. He berated himself for being so fucking _weak_ as the tears started spilling from his eyes. The water was too hot, he’d be nice and bright pink at the end, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. He tried to stanch the flow of tears. He was successful for a few seconds, before his bottom lip quivered and a sob burst from his mouth and clanged around on the sleek black shower tiles.

God, he hated crying. He wasn’t even sure why he was, couldn’t put it together from the pieces of his jumbled soul. _Yeah, you were always kind of stupid that way, weren’t you?_ He meekly told his cruel inner voice to shut it, but it was drowned out. He pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them, laying his head down on top of them and quietly shaking with the force of his sobs. He was tired, his head bloody hurt, and more than that—and probably the reason for the tears—he felt so utterly alone.

Aziraphale had swept into his life like so much rain in a desert. He’d seen this picture once, of wildflowers in Death Valley in America, after a record-setting rain. The seeds had been lying there dormant for years and then finally the rain had come, and the flowers had grown and bloomed and it was so _beautiful_. That’s what he felt like. The seeds had always been there. Always been waiting. He drank up every single drop of affection Aziraphale had offered and let himself believe he was some beautiful thing, some wildflower, and Aziraphale looked at him like maybe he was. He had felt himself blooming, not sure if Aziraphale was the sun or the rain, but he soaked up whatever heavenly essence it was and took it deep into his tired soul. And now he was wilting again. His source of water had dried up and the heat of the sun was too much. He was trying to give Aziraphale space, he knew he wanted it, needed it, but it was so bloody painful.

It had been more than he ever thought he could have. He told himself he’d take what he could get. Cherish every scrap of affection he could scrounge off the ground. Eat the whole cake and scrape the crumbs and frosting from the plate afterwards, lick his finger and dab at it to make sure every last crumb had been discovered and consumed by his greedy tongue. It wasn’t enough anymore. He used to be drought hardy. Used to be able to live on the summer rains alone. He wasn’t good at accepting love, wasn’t good at receiving tenderness, at hearing soft words, and feeling softer hands. _Anything can thrive if you know how to love it right_. He thought he’d be able to take everything Aziraphale had given him and use it to sustain him for the rest of his life. That if he disappeared tomorrow, it would be enough. He was so wrong. He hated being wrong. It’d been several days at most, since he’d seen or heard from Aziraphale, and he could feel the bruises on his heart in the shape of the other man’s fingers. The fingers that had massaged his aching head, carded through his hair, chased his pain away.

He peeled himself off the shower floor, managed to wash and get out. The pill and hot water had taken the edge off his migraine. His hair was still drying when he walked into the Arches building. The air conditioning sent a chill through him as he made his way to his office. He was in a sour mood and he needed to reel it in, fast. He was meeting with Dierdre Young today, and Christensen. He needed to be on his game. He passed Gabriel in the hallway on the way to the breakroom to make coffee. They brushed past each other, not even bothering to exchange verbal greetings. Gabriel gave one of those smiles that showed his opalescent teeth but did nothing to his eyes. Crowley quirked the corners of his mouth and glared through his sunglasses. He accomplished his mission to make coffee and he brought his prize back to his office and shut himself in. He read through his case notes on the Young’s, reminding himself of some of the finer details. The legal team Morningstar had chosen was good. Crowley hadn’t nailed down his strategy yet. He needed to bring the case to a barrister, but it couldn’t be just anyone. They needed to be carefully selected, more than capable of holding their own in court, and willing to play just as dirty as their opposition. An idea was forming in Crowley’s mind, but he didn’t like it. He set it aside for the time being and focused on the work in front of him.

He drank down the rest of his coffee and took his sunglasses off, something he always did when meeting with clients, especially children. He’d learned the importance of direct eye contact when trying to gain trust. He stepped into his meeting with Dierdre. She was fidgeting in her chair, wringing her hands. The bags that were always under her eyes were darker and more prominent. He could tell something was off. Her eyes were wide and bright with the alertness prey animals have when they know they’re being stalked. He did his best to put her at ease, get her through the basic and housekeeping portions of the meeting. After those things were out of the way, he dug into whatever this new problem was.

“I’ll be right back. Sit tight.” He patted her shoulder on his way out. He brought back a steaming cup of tea and set it down in front of her.

She gave him an appreciative nod.

Crowley settled back into his seat, did his best to maintain an open body position, keeping his arms uncrossed and sitting at attention, leaning towards her.

“Something’s been bothering you. What’s happened since we last met?”

Deirdre leaned forward, whispered, “I think I’m being followed.”

Crowley sucked in a breath. If it were any other lawyer at the firm, they would have told her she was being paranoid, brushed her off as jumpy and overemotional. Crowley knew better. This was a woman who knew her husband well enough to have escaped, to have kept herself and her son hidden for this long, who was brave enough now to be going through _this. _If she thought she was being followed, she was probably being followed. He pried a little further. A non-descript black car outside of where she worked that was there at lunch and still there, a few spots over, when she was leaving. If she drove slowly, she could see the same car following her on her route home. She’d hid out at friend’s house after calling Arthur in a panic, explaining what was happening. He collected Adam from school while her and her friend watched for the car to leave from behind the curtains.

Deirdre looked to be on the edge of tears. “I just, I knew it would be hard.” She fixed her gaze on the wooden table, studied the grains in the whorls. “I wasn’t prepared for how it would _feel_.” Her chin wobbled. Crowley fetched the tissue box from a side table and brought them to her. She sniffled and plucked a few from the box, dabbing at her eyes. He wasn’t generally a touchy person, but he didn’t hesitate to wrap one of his long arms around Deirdre’s shoulders. He waited for her to calm a bit, for the flow of tears to ebb, before he returned to his seat opposite her.

“This changes things a bit.” He confessed.

She nodded, then sat up straighter. “Everything I tell you is confidential?”

“Absolutely confidential, it stays between you and myself.” He reassured her. He braced himself for whatever it was she was about to divulge.

She took a steadying breath. “I think I might have some, er, evidence. About my husband’s more criminal activities.”

Crowley’s ears perked up. Morningstar was a prime suspect in a number of high profile art and jewel crimes, but there’d never been enough to arrest him. If they could put him in jail, well Deirdre could get divorced and not have to worry about her ex husband hunting her and her son down and seeking retribution.

Crowley carefully considered his words. “What do you have?”

“I have some pictures, taken from scenes, and some documents, copies of invoices—that sort of thing.” She breathed in and out a few times.

“I wanted some kind of insurance.” She shrugged her shoulders, crossed her arms and ran her hands up and down them.

She’d been gathering protection, gathering ammunition, all along. 

“Why didn’t you come forward with any of this before now?” He wasn’t being judgmental, just trying to understand.

“I was there for some of them. He forced me to participate. Told me if I ever said anything I’d go to prison as an accomplice.”

What a slimy bastard. He’d been forcing her into participating with abuse and fear and he’d been forcing her silence with fear, too.

“We can prove you were forced into participating. We have your medical records, and Adam’s. Any sane jury will understand. Aside from that, you’ll be able to make a deal with police, trade your evidence for amnesty.”

This seemed to put Deirdre a bit more at ease. Shit. It was only 10 in the morning and it was already going to hell in a handbasket. He needed to call Bee.

“Look, it might be best for you and Arthur to get out of town for a couple of days while I work some things here on the back end.”

Deirdre nodded.

“Do you think he’s been tracking Adam? Following him to and from school?”

Deirdre paled. “I don’t think so. I asked him if he’d seen anything, but I didn’t want to scare him.”

“It’s easier than you’d like it to be for people to find children through the school system.” Crowley had been a part of several cases where a spouse had picked up a child from school without the school or the spouse being any the wiser.

“It might be good to put Adam somewhere more private, with better security.”

Dierdre shook her head, “I don’t think we’d be able to afford that.”

Crowley bit his lip. Right. _Bugger. _Wait, didn’t Aziraphale’s assistant homeschool her daughter?

“You could homeschool him,” Crowley offered, “I might know someone that would be willing to help out for a bit.”

“That could work.” Dierdre chewed on her bottom lip.

“Would it be alright with you if I consulted a friend of mine on this? They work with the police—It’ll be totally off books, just to get the lay of the land.”

Dierdre's eyes grew wide, she hesitated.

“Your friend, you trust them?” She asked.

Crowley nodded. “I trust them. I won’t divulge any specifics, if anyone’s going to give details it should be you, if you’d ever like to.”

Dierdre turned away, stared off into the distance, considering. Finally, she nodded her head, assenting.

“Alright, so long as you trust them.”

Crowley shuffled some of the paper in his file around and jotted down a few quick notes about the recent developments. “I’ll need to meet with Adam soon, as well.”

Dierdre nodded methodically.

Crowley softened his voice. “How are his therapy sessions going?”

“Okay.” She replied.

“Just okay?” Crowley pressed, sensing there was more to it than that.

Dierdre was silent for a moment. “He’s had um, he’s had some trouble adjusting. The therapist says that’s normal.”

“But you’re not convinced?” Crowley finished her train of thought.

Dierdre nodded, then leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“He got into a fight at school last week, punched two kids. One had a bloody nose.”

She wrung her hands in her lap, had her gazed fixed on them.

“I’m so worried. What if it doesn’t work? What if he turns out like his father, what if he’s got this thing already inside him?”

Crowley swallowed the lump in his throat. There was no was no way in hell he was going to cry twice in the same day. He reached across the table, initiating contact with another human being for the second time in less than an hour.

He placed his hand on top of hers, his large palm and bony fingers engulfing her small hand. It felt fragile under his palm. He’d seen x-rays of her hands, seen the broken fingers.

“He’s got you now, Dierdre. He’s got you, and Arthur, and so many other people who are going to love him and show him what’s right. You’ve just got to keep loving him. You have to show him how. He’s going to be okay; you’re all going to be okay.”

Tears were welling up in the corners of her eyes again. Crowley blinked away the sting in his own eyes.

They parted, Deirdre told him her and Arthur and Adam would most likely be heading to the coast for a week or so, giving Crowley some time to figure everything out here. He called Bee as soon as she left, shutting himself back in his office. His first call went unanswered. He tried again and they answered on the second ring, hissing into his ear. “Crowley, what the hell do you want?”

“Hi, Bee, lovely to talk to you too, I’ll just get right to it, shall I?”

Bee grumbled on the other end, “I wish you would.”

Crowley walked to his window, drew the shades down, “It’s about Morningstar.”

He could hear the cogs in Bee’s head turning. “What about him?” They finally asked.

“His wife’s trying to get a divorce, I think she might have something on him, but I need to know more about the situation at hand.”

Crowley waited for their confirmation before continuing, “We need to meet, off books.”

Their reply came a few moments later, “Café off the square, can you make it there by half past noon?” Crowley sighed in relief. They were willing to help.

“I can. ‘Til then.” The line went dead. He sunk into his chair. Bee wasn’t necessarily pleasant, but the head of the Special Crimes unit was a good person to know, and an even better person to have on your side. Crowley’s first meeting with Bee had been under less than desirable circumstances. He’d been young. Young and stupid and angry and _hurting_. Tossed from foster home to foster home, each more garish than the last as he got older. Bee picked him up for petty theft. He’d just been along for the ride really, and when they were spotted and the coppers showed, one of his new ‘friends’ cracked him in the face, leaving him clutching his bleeding nose on the pavement as Bee towered over him.

Crowley had sat in a little stainless-steel room, paper towels clutched to his bleeding nose, as Bee flipped through his file. They looked over their nose at him, “how about you tell me all about your little friends and I cut you a deal?”

Crowley stared over the paper towels in his hand. Bee continued, reading from a page in his file, “I see your current foster’s almost up.” Crowley scowled at her but offered no verbal response. “A nice woman’s on the docket as your potential next one.” Bee clicked her tongue. “Almost 16, not many people willing to take in such old kids, are there? And she’s rich too, husband’s a fancy pants lawyer, imagine that. I’d be willing to bet good money you haven’t had very many homes like that, huh?”

Crowley glowered.

“Tell you what, you give me names, I make sure this lovely woman moves to the front of the line for you.”

Crowley thought about it. His face hurt and his nose was still bleeding and all he wanted was a nice place to sleep and maybe some warm meals and someone that wouldn’t yell at him constantly. Fuck those kids that had run off. He squealed, he told Bee all he could about his worthless cronies.

“So, you’re smarter than you look, after all.” Bee dropped the charges, and he did indeed end up with the lady they’d talked about.

Her hair was made of starlight and it fell around her face in gentle curls. It gave her a halo when the light fell on it just right. She had eyes the color of the ocean at its deepest, a soft voice she never, ever used to yell, and a beatific smile she graced Crowley with often. Crowley wasn’t prepared for the love she showed him. She took him to all of his therapy appointments, she never missed one. She taught Crowley how to garden. She bought him a pair of sunglasses and a floppy hat he still had to this day. She had migraines too and she took him to a doctor to get the pills that he still took. She looked at Crowley like he was worth something and it tilled the soil in his soul, swept away all the dead and dying things and planted new seeds. When the weather was nice, she would take her easel outside while Crowley tended to the garden, skilled enough now to do it on his own. He would squat down next to the vegetables, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the smile on her face as she painted. 

They lived in a little cottage in the country together. The rest of her family was away for some reason or another and she’d come out to the country for fresh air and quiet while they were gone. When the weather was bad, they’d sit inside on the couch and watch old movies. One afternoon, with the rain pattering on the glass windows of the little cottage and _Casablanca _playing on the TV, he asked her a question.

“Why would you pick me?” His voice had come out smaller, more broken, less confident than he would have liked. He pulled the blanket he was wrapped up in tighter around himself.

She smiled that electric smile, the one that set his heart on fire, filled with so much love he was sure he would drown under the swell of it.

“Well you know, I was supposed to be fostering kittens.” She paused to take a sip from her steaming cup of tea, turned her gaze back to Humphrey Bogart on screen before continuing. “Kittens aren’t so good at conversation.”

Crowley cracked a smile, glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Young children aren’t so good at conversation either. They told me no one ever wants the older ones, and I thought, why isn’t that ridiculous. I saw your picture, your beautiful hair, your sad eyes. You looked lonely. I’d only been here a couple weeks, but I was lonely, too. I thought maybe we could keep each other company.” She held her hand out on the couch, palm up in a silent offer. Crowley unfurled his blanket enough to slither an arm out to take it. She gave his hand a squeeze, and those were _absolutely not_ tears in his eyes.

She had art and history books strewn throughout the cottage and Crowley loved flipping through them, loved finding a random page and reading everything about whatever painting or event he found on it. She didn’t talk about her family often. Crowley correctly assumed this was to make him more at ease; to make him feel less like a placeholder in her life. Most of them were lawyers. Her youngest, who she only ever called ‘Zee’ was about to follow suit. She told Crowley he’d be a good lawyer. He was only with her for a year and a half or so, and then he was off to university, off to study law. He kept in touch, wrote her letters through school. He used the love that she’d given him, the love that she’d taught him to form his own relationships. Their contact become more infrequent as he progressed through school and got busier and busier. After some time, it stopped all together. It was Bee, of all people, who told him. He saw them from time to time when he was shadowing lawyers in court. They always quirked the corners of their mouth in the tiniest smile when they saw him. Happy for him and the path he’d made for himself. It was only fitting, really. Bee had made sure he met her, and Bee told him when she’d died.

He didn’t go to the funeral. He hadn’t found out in time to go, not that he would have gone, even if he’d known. He would have felt like an outsider, and intruder. He’d never even seen what her children looked like. He didn’t want to stand there, watching her family mourn her. It was so much more than he’d ever be able to take. No, he didn’t go to the funeral. He mourned her privately. He put all of her letters in a box. He took flowers to her grave from time to time. He did his best to move on with his life. She wasn't so much a mother figure to him as she'd been a friend. Crowley's first real friend, and one of the first adults to show him true love.

He walked up to the café at exactly half past noon, coat collar popped against the chilly wind. He scowled to himself. He hated the bloody cold. Bee was a few people ahead of him in line. He ordered himself a sandwich and a coffee and took it to the table Bee had chosen in the corner.

They gave him a curt nod. “Crowley.”

Crowley pulled his chair out, cringing when it scraped against the wood floor.

Bee’s dark hair was reflecting the dim café lighting and Crowley took a moment to admire their pinstriped blazer and neatly pressed shirt.

“You’re looking well.” He sat down, ran a hand through his hair, already knackered, and the second part of his day was only just beginning.

Bee snorted at him and unwrapped their sandwich, ripping a hefty chunk of it off with their teeth. Crowley unwrapped his own sandwich, a tomato and mozzarella with basil pesto on focaccia, while he waited for them to finish chewing.

Bee wiped their mouth. “Still enjoying family law, then?” They squinted at him before allowing their mouth to break into a cheeky smile. “You look like shit.” They took another bite of their sandwich.

Crowley grumbled around his own mouthful. He swallowed. “Been busy.” He mumbled before taking a swig of his coffee.

Bee continued to eat, too-sharp teeth glinting under the little hanging lamps dangling from the ceiling.

“So, Morningstar’s wife is now my client. She wants a divorce. We’ve started the proceedings. He’s got himself a legal team together, the works.”

“Sounds pretty standard so far,” Bee tore open the bag of crisps that had come with the sandwich, plucking a few from the bag and crunching down on them savagely.

Crowley fought the urge to ask if they actually knew how to eat like a normal person, Bee made the act look so threatening, but he supposed that was rather the idea. Bee was a tiny person, one most people would assume was female. Bee preferred nonbinary terms and presentation, and also preferred people be intimidated by them rather than the other way around.

“Right. So she comes in today for her meeting and says she’s been followed.”

Crowley explained to Bee about the car, about his plan to have them take Adam out of a public school.

“I was wondering, if it might be wise to have her officially go to the police? To get a restraining order or something?”

Bee messed with a tomato they’d picked off their sandwich and shook her head. They leaned in and lowered their voice.

“I wouldn’t trust the police.”

Bee must have caught the concerned widening of Crowley’s eyes because they quickly added, “He’s got people on his payroll in the police, it’s how he’s avoided being nailed all this time.”

Crowley leaned back into his chair and scrubbed his hands over his face.

“_Shit_.” He hissed.

“I think your plan is a good one. Have them get out of town for a bit, take the kid out of the public eye.”

Bee crossed their arms, creasing the fabric of their blazers around their elbows. Crowley had always admired their style.

“Do you think what she has will be enough?”

Crowley crossed his own arms, mirroring Bee. “I haven’t seen it yet, she’s pretty cagey about it, but I think so. She’s scared, so for her to mention it at all, for her to have held on to it for so long, I think it has to be good.”

Bee nodded, dark chin length hair jostling around their face.

“I think I’m narrowing in on his people in the force. I’ve got a pretty good idea who it is—at least who his main people on the inside are. Remind me, you ever work with Hastur or Ligur?”

Crowley frowned, he had indeed worked with both of them and had not found any of the experiences pleasurable. They both worked under Bee in special crimes, one of them handled evidence, the other did more filing and follow up with leads.

“One of them?” Crowley asked.

“Both.” Bee replied.

Bee explained her suspicions more fully and Crowley listened intently. They decided to roll everything they could get into the case, if Deirdre decided she wanted to go ahead with her evidence. Bee agreed to grant her amnesty for her role in any of the crimes in exchange. Crowley would let Deirdre know the next time they met.

“I’ll need to meet with her, if she decides she wants to do this.” Bee said.

Crowley nodded. That could be tricky. It would have to be somewhere neutral, inconspicuous if Deirdre was being followed and they didn’t want to let Morningstar’s people know she was involving the police.

“I might know a place.” Deirdre and Arthur were looking to get married following her hopeful (_inevitable_, Crowley told himself) divorce. It would make sense that she might pay a visit to a wedding planner to boost spirits and get some things moving.

Bee made a ‘go on’ gesture with their hand. “I have a friend that plans weddings, we might be able to use his shop—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bee cut him off mid-sentence, hand raised in the ‘hold on’ position. “You have a friend that plans _weddings_? You?”

“No, need to sound so shocked.” Crowley failed at keeping the defensiveness out of his tone.

“What, are you like dating him or something?” 

Crowley’s cheeks colored traitorously, and he cursed himself internally.

“Oh my God, you stupid bastard.” Bee started to _giggle _of all things. The only thing Bee ever seemed to giggle at was Crowley.

“Hey!” Crowley glowered and then remembered he was supposed to be defending himself. “We’re not dating!”

Bee snorted, disbelief plain on their face.

Crowley cheeks still burned hotly, but he dug himself out of his embarrassment for long enough to remember why this line of conversation had been started in the first place.

“The point is,” He began sternly, trying to use his tone to reign Bee’s giggling back in, “He might be willing to help out by hosting a sort of _clandestine_ meeting.”

Bee stood up, pushed in their chair. “Right, well let me know what your boyfriend says, you know how to contact me.”

Crowley blustered for a moment, reeling in his retort of ‘he’s not my boyfriend’ and choosing to nod and wave instead. _He’s not my boyfriend, _Crowley thought, _but I wish he was._

*

Crowley slammed the rest of his coffee on his way back to the office. He hesitated at his computer, hands hovering over his keyboard. He was in the process of sending an email, but so far, he’d only gotten to putting in the recipient’s address. He wasn’t sure what to say, he couldn’t believe he was actually doing this. He glanced at his watch, he needed to get a move on. He set his hands to the keyboard and typed away, reading the message over when it was done and then sending it. He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It was done. The barrister would either agree to consider taking the case or they wouldn’t. Crowley scolded the small part of himself that was hoping they wouldn’t. It would make his life less complicated. It would also decrease his and Deirdre’s chances of being successful. He resolved to hope the responding email would be favorable.

Crowley sighed and pulled up the Christensen case file. God that man was vile. Crowley had been dragging his feet with the case and it was driving Gabriel up a wall. Irritating Gabriel happened to be one of Crowley’s favorite workplace pastimes, but he did need to get things moving. He’d need a decent barrister. Christensen loved talking about himself, he was more than a bit of a narcissist and was likely to say something incriminating or less than savory if he took the stand himself. If the case came down to a jury, they wouldn’t like him—he was unlikeable. His wife’s legal team was nothing special—competent—but nothing dazzling, nothing Crowley couldn’t handle. He scrolled through his notes, reading. His kid, only 8 years old, had been taken to the hospital once needing stitches for a split chin and again a while later for some lacerations on an arm. The wife had claimed these visits were both incidents of abuse and Crowley would have to ask Christensen for his version of events (whilst trying not to roll his eyes back into his head listening to whatever pathetic excuses he came up with).

Crowley begrudgingly took his sunglasses off and gathered his paperwork before heading down the hall to his meeting. Christensen looked relaxed. Crowley remembered what he’d looked like in the mirror that morning. Pale, exhausted, with deep dark circles under his pitifully sad looking eyes. Christensen was lounging in his chair, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world, like he wasn’t in a meeting with his divorce lawyer wherein they were going to discuss his wife’s very serious accusation of child abuse. Crowley threw the case file down on the wooden table, the same table that Deirdre Young had been crying at not but four hours earlier. Crowley had a lot of feelings about Deirdre Young, none of which had any overlap to Christensen. In fact, the comparison of his two clients only served to make him feel even more wretched. Crowley tried to follow the advice given to most family lawyers of not getting too emotionally invested. He’d never been very good at that. He was good at pretending, on the surface, with his snugly tailored trousers and laced black boots, his cool demeanor and acerbic tongue, but he knew the truth. He cared too much.

Crowley politely greeted the man, wincing as his head began to pound. Crowley started with the usual housekeeping matters before diving into the nitty-gritty details of the meeting. Crowley sighed, flicking through his file and plucking the tabbed page out of it, getting his pen ready to take notes.

“Let’s go through some of the incidences that have been cited as abuse, shall we?”

Christensen made a face, “Oh, it’s all a load of rubbish, we give credit to the idea by talking about it, it’s so draining for me.”

_For you_? Crowley thought, _Draining for you?_

Crowley reminded himself he didn’t have the veil of his sunglasses to hide behind at the moment, and he needed to keep his face carefully neutral and free of judgement.

“Unfortunately, it’s very important to your case that we walk through your version of events, especially for the incidents that have evidence, like hospital records,” Crowley paused to push a copy of one of the records over, “It’s important for the judge and a potential jury to have a plausible alternate explanation.”

Crowley spread his hands in a placating gesture.

Christensen nodded his head, sandy hair bouncing, understanding creeping over his features.

“So, April 3rd, 2016, your son comes to urgent care with a split chin requiring stitches. Your recollection of the incident is…?” Crowley prompted.

Christensen crossed his arms. “He was running in the kitchen. Slipped on the tile and fell.”

“Your wife will say you shoved him, and the notes from the hospital visit say that split was deep, almost all the way to his jawbone. Apparently, children don’t normally fall with so much force.”

“Jessica had been mopping and she used too much water, the floor was soaking, and he was running, and he slipped in the water, took a pretty hard spill.” Christensen shrugged his shoulders. Lying could come easy to Crowley too, but the dastardliness of shifting the blame for an act Crowley was almost certain he’d committed onto his wife was making Crowley’s blood boil.

Crowley concentrated on his breathing, calling on his breath control from his yoga practice. God, he should probably do some yoga or something when he got home. Crowley scribbled on the page, next to the bullet he’d typed about the incident.

“Alright, January 4th, 2017, says here he came in needing some stitches for some lacerations in his arm. Looks like he had some bruises on his face and head as well.”

“He was standing on my office chair; he lost his balance and fell into the bookcase.” Crowley gritted his teeth. 

“Says he had to have splinters removed from his wounds, was the bookcase very old?”

At Christensen’s frown of confusion, Crowley clarified, “Only, it must have been structurally unsound for it to have come apart like that, just from him falling into it. What did he weigh then, 20 maybe 30 kilos?”

“Oh, yes, shoddy thing. Poorly put together, from Costco or some such place, unsafe really, we should have sued.”

Crowley didn’t glare at Christensen like he wanted to, he clenched his jaw, an action that would only serve to spur on the aching in his head. Their meeting continued like this, with Crowley mentioning a few more dates, until he got to the last one. It took a herculean effort not to spit the accusation at him, _you broke your son’s arm, let me hear whatever lie it is you have to tell me about that one. _Instead, he calmly made eye contact with Christensen, his amber eyes meeting Christensen’s icy blue ones. They were almost the same color as Aziraphale's. His eyes were nothing like Aziraphale’s. They were cold and dead where Aziraphale’s were warm and expressive.

“November 17th, 2019. Your son came in with a broken arm. Do you recall the events leading up to the incident?” Crowley asked.

“Yeah, I do as a matter of fact.” Christensen adjust one of the cuffs of his pristine white dress shirt. Crowley thought about what the shirt might look like if he lunged across the table and clocked him in the nose, making it pour blood and drip blotches of deep red on the white fabric.

“He was skateboarding outside. Fell off.” That was it, that was his brilliant explanation for how his son had broken his arm.

“Did he have any other scratches or bruises that you remember?” Crowley asked.

Christensen thought for a moment and Crowley wondered what it was he was thinking about, was he trying to remember if he had left bruises on his son, of was he considering that it would be odd to take a fall from a skateboard and not have any other marks?

“Must have had some, don’t remember particulars though.” Christensen smiled at him. Crowley thought through punching him in the nose again, how satisfying it would be to feel the cartilage crunch under his fist, how warm and squishy the blood would feel running between his knuckles.

Crowley was glad to bid Christensen farewell and have the meeting over and done with. He headed back toward his office, stopping to down two glasses of water in the breakroom, hoping to mitigate the growing pain in his head. At least it didn’t seem like his migraine from this morning was making a grand reappearance. This just seemed like a good old-fashioned tension headache. _Marvelous._ He sat at his desk, updating his case notes. He took care of some more of his paperwork before taking his phone out of his trouser pocket. He brought up Aziraphale’s number. His thumb hovered over the ‘call’ button for a few seconds before finally making contact with the screen. Crowley put the phone to his ear and waited. His heart sped up when he heard Aziraphale’s voice.

“Crowley? Hello?”

“Aziraphale, hi.” Crowley thought about his words, trying to select them carefully.

“I need to talk to you, in person.”

He heard the fabric of Aziraphale’s clothing shift on the other end of the line.

“Can we meet somewhere; you pick the place.”

Aziraphale had decided on the old bandstand in St. James. Crowley had kept his sunglasses on out of habit more than anything really, but he was glad he had done so, not trusting what his reaction to Aziraphale might be. He longed to touch him, to hear the velvety richness of his voice. In the end, Crowley was glad he’d worn his sunglasses for an entirely different reason. It meant Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes watering, couldn’t see the first tears forming. They started to fall right as Aziraphale turned his back and walked away. Crowley stood in stunned silence, rooted to the spot with salty water dripping down his face. The chill in the air finally spurred him into motion and he stumbled back to the Bentley, vision bleary, world distorted. He sat down in the driver’s seat and finally released the sob he’d been holding back.

Crowley had started his day with a pounding head and a cry and now it seemed he was ending it the same way. God, he _hated_ fucking crying. He ripped his sunglasses off and threw them into the passenger seat. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and leaned his forehead against it, sobs racking his body, throat gurgling around his broken, anguished noises. He talked himself through it, telling himself it would be okay, he’d be okay, it wouldn’t hurt this way forever, but then he realized he didn’t truly believe it, and that reinvigorated the flow of tears. He eventually calmed, taking in ragged, tremulous breaths, and made the drive home.

Once inside his flat, he kicked off his shoes and shirked off his jacket leaving them just inside the door. He headed for his couch and unbuckled his trousers, letting them pool around his feet before kicking them off. He undid his tie and lifted his shirt off and over his head. He grabbed the remote for his TV and his fluffiest blanket, wrapping himself up tightly, arms hugging his knees to his chest. He turned on _The Golden Girls_ and rocked himself back and forth, crying quietly. He freed one of his hands to swipe at his face, trying to mop up all the wetness. His hand came away smudged with a tan substance and Crowley remembered it was the make up he used to cover his tattoo at work. Putting it on that morning seemed such a distant memory. He leaned forward and grabbed the whole box of tissues off the coffee table, using one to wipe the rest of the make up off as best he could. He used several more to mop up the rest of his face. He eventually fell asleep, emotionally wrung out, wrapped up on his side with the glow of the TV to keep him company. He woke up early, _Golden Girls_ still playing. He sent an email from his phone; told his assistant he was taking a personal day. He wrapped himself back up and dozed for a few more hours.

When he woke, he called Ana. She picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

She sounded groggy when she answered, she wasn’t usually a morning person and it was still rather early.

“Hi, Ana, sorry to call so early, I just had a question for you.”

“Crowley? Is everything okay?”

Crowley exhaled. It was always best not to lie to Anathema.

“No, but that’s not why I’m calling. Listen, do you know Aziraphale’s assistant, whatshername, Natalia?”

“Yes…” came Anathema’s response.

“Great, do you think you could do me a favor? Could you give her my number and tell her to call me? I know she homeschools her daughter and I have a client she could really, really help out if she’d be willing to watch him and help out by homeschooling him for a bit.”

Crowley listened to Anathema breathing on the other end of the phone.

“Yeah, I’ll give it to her…Why not ask Aziraphale for it? Or just ask her yourself?”

Crowley inhaled deeply, willing his tears to hold the line and not start falling anew.

“I just—I can’t. We had a bit of a falling out and I need this done quickly, it’s urgent.”

“Oh no, did you guys break up? Do you need anything, do you want me to bring over ice cream?”

“Can’t break up if you’re not together, can you?”

Ana clucked her tongue at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Her tone softened, “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“No, I’d rather be alone right now, please.”

“I understand. Don’t hesitate to call, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Crowley hung up and set about moping. His plants needed watering, that was a task he could handle right now. He filled his mister, poured a packet of nutrient mix in it and swirled it around until it had dissolved. He walked around, taking his time misting each plant, picking off dead leaves here and there as needed. He got to the philodendron Aziraphale had given him, so tiny compared to the rest of his plants. The little plant he’d given him as an apology. He picked it up, hugged it to his chest. He imagined he could feel Aziraphale’s warmth and love coming from the plant. If he shut his eyes, he almost could. The little plant was proof that Aziraphale cared for him. He’d run off before, gone silent for a while and then come back. Something was scaring him. Maybe it wasn’t all a lost cause, maybe there was still hope that Aziraphale could beat back whatever it was. Aziraphale had been defensive, scared, _mean_, totally unlike himself. Crowley would let him know he’d be there, if Aziraphale needed him. He took the little plant with him and sat down on the sofa, hugging it to his side, drawing strength from it. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do, but he couldn’t stop himself. He ordered a tin of chocolates he knew Aziraphale liked, set them up to be delivered to his flat. He wrote a little note to go with the delivery. _I’ll be here, if you need me, angel. _

Crowley’s therapist had been trying to get him to understand for years that he was worthy of love, that he deserved it. He’d had a hard time learning that lesson. A few years ago, Crowley might have holed himself up in his flat, drank himself nearly to death and pretended Aziraphale had never existed. But Crowley had grown since then. Aziraphale had been disheveled, exhausted looking when Crowley had last seen him. He was fighting his own battles. Crowley thought back to all the times Aziraphale had gone running, all the times he’d retreated. They all had one thing in common, or rather one _person. _Crowley scowled and tucked the plant into his side protectively.

“What did you do you slimy bastard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So not gonna lie this chapter was a bitch to write, like it took a LOT out of me, but it needed to be written. 
> 
> Thank you so much again for reading. 
> 
> Side note: This fic isn't beta'd and I've been updating/fixing mistakes as I catch them, but I am in the market for a beta, if you're interested, drop me a note. 
> 
> As always, I'm [halfofmysoulistrees](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/halfofmysoulistrees) on tumblr, feel free to chat with me there!
> 
> And it only goes up from here, fluff and smut on the horizon :)


	7. The photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale told her about Crowley. He started at the beginning, told her about meeting him during his masters’, before his life had imploded. He explained Crowley had actually inadvertently and unknowingly been an unwilling party in that implosion.
> 
> She gasped, “He was the man in the picture.” She correctly surmised. Aziraphale nodded. He kept talking. Now that he had started the words were coming easier, wanting to be freed. He explained about the panic he felt every time he saw Gabriel, about how happy being around Crowley made him. He told her about the bandstand, about his fear that he’d run one too many times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings, long delay but I hope this chapter is worth it. The ending is very NSFW.

Aziraphale walked down a hallway with stark, high walls. The only light came from directly overhead, from the fluorescent that buzzed angrily down at him. His vision was dark around the edges, unsettling him. He had the distinct feeling of forgetting something important. He was doing something, wasn’t he? There was a task he was supposed to complete. If only he could remember what it was. He turned the corner to find himself walking down a long hall with identical white walls and lighting. The hall was long, so long it trailed off into darkness. Aziraphale wanted to turn around, go back down the other hallway and out the way he’d come in. How was it he’d gotten in again? A sound rippled through the silence. A cry or a whimper. Aziraphale’s feet carried him forward, toward the darkness down the hall.

“Aziraphale!” The voice cried out, anguished and broken. It belonged to Crowley. Aziraphale ran to the end of the hall, panting and running into the darkness, heart hammering in his chest, lungs burning in protest. He couldn’t get his feet under him, couldn’t make them carry him fast enough.

“Aziraphale, please!” The panic in Crowley’s voice sent his desperation into overdrive. He muddled his way through the dark, clumsy feet feeling heavier and heavier with every step, until he finally found the door. He pushed it open, revealing a bare room with another door on the opposite wall. He could hear Crowley’s cries growing louder and more urgent. He ran to the door and threw it open, finding a room identical to the one he’d just come from. The increasing volume of Crowley’s cries spurred him on, he was close enough to make out the sound of him sobbing.

“Help me, angel, please help me.” Aziraphale burst through the next door, thinking he might finally find Crowley on the other side. There was nothing but a dark pit on the other side of the door, which Aziraphale hurtled into in his desperation. He braced himself for the pain at the end of the fall, but when he hit the ground, the pain didn’t come. He pushed himself up and found that he was in a familiar place. He was in his mother’s garden. His knee was scraped and bleeding. She was painting at her easel, staring into the distance beyond him. He suddenly became aware of the stinging in his knee and was overcome with the irresistible urge to run to her, to be comforted by his mother.

She finally took notice of him as he ran to her, tugging on her skirt and sniffling. She gazed down at him as though being awoken from a trance.

“Oh, my darling little Zee, have you hurt yourself?” She asked as she scooped him up and into her lap.

Aziraphale swiped at his eyes. “Mummy, I couldn’t find him. He needed help and I couldn’t find him!” Aziraphale blurted out.

His mother placed a gentle hand on his cheek, rubbing it through his tears. “Couldn’t find who, Zee?”

“Crowley! What if he’s hurt? What if he really needed me and I wasn’t there?”

His mother tipped his chin up and gazed into his eyes, “Crowley is very strong, darling. I’m sure he’ll be alright.”

Aziraphale shook his head frantically and buried his head into his mother’s neck, smearing it with his salty tears.

“You were so brave,” she murmured, rubbing over the scraped skin of his knee. Something nagged at the back of Aziraphale’s mind. He shook his head again.

“I’m not brave,” he insisted miserably, “I’m never brave enough!”

She held his jaw firmly and forced him to meet her eyes.

“But you could be, Zee. You can be.” She rubbed circles into his back, and he ducked his head to hide in her neck again, clinging to the fabric of her shirt with his hands.

The loose strands of her braid tickled his ear as she leaned in and whispered, “Crowley will be alright, Zee. You’ll see. Afterall, it was only a bad dream.”

Aziraphale woke with a start, disoriented. More light was shining through his curtains than he was used to. He reached for his phone and checked the time. It was later than he typically woke up, nearly ten. He’d already told his assistant he wouldn’t be in. It’d been two days since the row at the bandstand. Two days since he’d seen Crowley. It felt like two years. He swung his legs over the bed and placed his feet on the ground, getting up gingerly. His head was pounding and the space behind his eyes ached. He went to fetch himself a glass of water and was confronted with the remnants of the pint of ice cream he’d eaten last night sitting on the coffee table. The spoon was still poking out of it. He’d come home and cried, tears running down his face and into his ice cream. He had done the most self-destructive thing he could manage. He had sat on his couch with his ice cream watching his client’s wedding videos. He hated himself. He’d been so _mean_. Why had he said all those things?

He knew the answer. Because he was startled, afraid. He’d successfully outrun his past for so long and now it had all caught up with him. He hadn’t ever healed properly. He could feel that now. His old scars were so quick to open because they’d only ever healed on the surface. He’d stitched the open ends of the wounds so tightly together that the scars were tight, easy to pull at, easy to break open. He’d been upset and frightened. He still felt the icy fingers curling around his heart every time he saw Gabriel. Seeing Michael again had been a fright. A ghost, coming to haunt him.

There it was. There was the truth of it—Aziraphale was a haunted man. And he’d given his ghosts permission to do the haunting. _When we feel vulnerable, we attack_. Aziraphale thought wretchedly. That’s why he’d said those hurtful things. Like cornered animals with nowhere to run. _Feel what I feel, hurt the way I hurt. I didn’t show you my belly, you flipped me over and dangled your claws over the soft flesh._ Aziraphale felt terrible. Watching the wedding videos had only made it worse. Crowley was right. The couples looked happy, but deep down he had always known some to be doomed. He’d just ignored it, preferring instead to think of the impossibility that all couples were happy, that all endings were happy. That everyone else had a happy ending and a life that he just wasn’t meant to have.

He thought for a moment, about what would happen if he just let his past catch him. What would change? Michael had already found him. Would his family criticize him, belittle him for his choices? Would he care? That was the worst they could do. It was only words. No, he was afraid of something else. He was afraid of what Crowley would think, if he knew. For all the bravery Crowley had, Aziraphale had matched him with cowardice. He was afraid Crowley would think him a coward. He’d finally turned tail and run too many times and Crowley wouldn’t give him the opportunity to do it again.

His stomach grumbled at him, unsatisfied with his dinner of chocolate brownie ice cream. He needed food. He needed to get out of the flat. He needed a voice outside of his own head. There was a single person that could fulfill all these needs, with the added convenience of doing it all in one go. He picked up his phone and called Tracy.

It had been a while since Aziraphale last visited Tracy’s eclectic little café. She’d made some renovations over the years, and the neighborhood surrounding it had certainly come up in that time. It was bigger and more modern now, with a sign that lit up in neon at night, and an outdoor patio with seating. She dropped the pastry she was holding on a dish and ran to envelop him in a tight embrace when she caught sight of him. It warmed him from the inside. Amazing, what being in the arms of someone you loved, someone you knew loved you, could do. She sat him at a table in a corner and brought him a pastry, joining him across the table with two cups of tea. She pushed one across to him.

“You’re looking rather well.” He told her, smiling as he took the first bite of his treat-- cherry, one of his favorites. 

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t quite say the same for you, dearie.” She fixed him with disapproving eyes over her mug. “You look like you didn’t sleep a wink last night.” She tutted.

“Well that might be because I did not, in fact, sleep very well last night.” Aziraphale answered, taking another prim bite from his pastry and wiping cherry filling from the corner of his mouth with a thumb.

“Is there any particular reason for that?”

Aziraphale swallowed thickly, casting his eyes downwards before looking back up at Tracy again.

“There is.”

Tracy straightened her back, softened her eyes.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Aziraphale nodded, “Yes. Yes, I think I ought to.”

Aziraphale told her about Crowley. He started at the beginning, told her about meeting him during his masters’, before his life had imploded. He explained Crowley had actually inadvertently and unknowingly been an unwilling party in that implosion.

She gasped, “He was the man in the picture.”

Aziraphale nodded. He kept talking. Now that he had started the words were coming easier, wanting to be freed. He explained about the panic he felt every time he saw Gabriel, about how happy being around Crowley made him. He told her about the bandstand, about his fear that he’d run one too many times.

When he had finished, she took one of his hands in her own.

“When our hearts want something, there’s nothing for it.” She explained. “Is he what your heart wants?”

Aziraphale sometimes had trouble talking like this, giving life to his emotions, but he wasn’t experiencing any of that today.

“Yes.” He replied, and it thrilled him.

She smiled knowingly. “Then I think you know what it is you’ve got to do, dear.”

“But what if,” Aziraphale began, panic rising in his throat, “What if it’s not what he wants?” He gave her hand a squeeze. “What if he doesn’t forgive me?”

“I think it’s best you let him decide, don’t you?”

Aziraphale pondered that, building his resolve.

“I want to be brave.”

Tracy gave his hand a pat.

“That’s what being brave is, darling, doing things even when you’re afraid.”

She stood then and picked up his plate, pressed a kiss to his temple. “And you’re already so much braver than you give yourself credit for.”

***

Crowley really wanted more than the one day he’d taken off, but he had an important meeting he’d rather not reschedule set for today. He did grant himself the luxury of taking part of the morning for himself. He stretched, letting his bare arms and legs slide against his silky sheets. He sulked for a few minutes, not wanting to part with the warmth of the bed. It was so bloody cold out now. He winced when his feet touched the floor. The stylish industrial concrete flooring wasn’t the warmest material. He scurried from his bed to the bathroom and went about getting ready.

He stalked into work, thankful for his warm coffee and lack of a migraine. When he got to his floor he stepped out of the elevator and peered into the hallway, making sure the coast was clear before darting into his office and shutting himself in. The last thing he wanted right now was to run into Gabriel, not until after his meeting. He double-checked the time on his phone. He still had 15 more minutes. He considered watering the succulents on his windowsill but thought better of it. He didn’t want to risk being seen on his way to or from filling up his mister. He could brush up on the case file, read back through all his notes, but he had most of it memorized by now. He slouched further into his chair. Spun around in it a few times before giving up and scrolling through his phone. He couldn’t quiet the buzzing in his head enough to actually read anything.

After five minutes of anxiously bouncing his foot up and down and mindless scrolling, a sharp knock on his door nearly startled him out of his chair. He collected himself, took a deep breath, smoothing his shirt and his hair on the way to opening the door.

A woman in a sharp cream suit stood outside his office, clutching a legal pad to her chest. Her sandy blonde hair was curled and piled high on top of her head, spilling onto her forehead. Her eyes were piercing, they always gave Crowley the impression that she was analyzing him. She held out her hand expectantly.

Crowley gathered himself and shook it. “Michael, always lovely to see you.”

She gave him a curt nod. “Same to you Anthony.”

She breezed past him and into his office. Crowley marveled at how intimidating she was, despite her slight figure. Even with her curls stacked on top of her head like that, she only came to about his shoulder. He’d always been a little afraid of Michael, more so when he was interning, and she was around the office and Gabriel more. Crowley sat down behind his desk, thankful that its bulk provided him the sense of having a modicum of protection. He tried to arrange himself in a sort of professional, relaxed way while he watched her extract copies of the documents he’d sent, pens and highlighters in a variety of colors, and a few tabbed folders. She set them all neatly on the desk in front of her.

“So, I think I have a good understanding of the case, but why don’t you give me the full version, so I know we’re starting off on the same page.” She spoke in a professional, clipped tone.

Crowley was thankful they were skipping over any other forms of pleasantries or small talk and getting right into it. He sat up a little straighter and flipped his well-marked case file open, launching into it. Michael opened her copy and followed along with Crowley’s explanation, highlighting or scribbling a note occasionally as Crowley spoke.

Crowley flipped a page, “Now,” be began, waggling a finger at her, “here’s where things get interesting.”

She arched a meticulously groomed eyebrow at him and gestured for him to continue.

“You’re very good at what you do, but I wouldn’t have bothered you for a simple divorce.” Crowley paused for a second to let his words sink in before continuing. “I trust you’re well-acquainted with Luci Morningstar and his organized crime extracurriculars?”

Michael snorted inelegantly. “Well-acquainted, good way of putting it.” She smiled at him. She’d been the barrister for some of the cases against him that had fallen through, she was very knowledgeable on the subject, to say the least.

Crowley shot her a genuine smile. “Dierdre might be sitting on some pretty significant evidence.”

Michael’s professional and neutral expression broke as her eyes widened and her mouth opened in surprise. Her tone took on a more gleeful note. She leaned forward conspiratorially.

“Evidence she’s willing to use?”

Crowley nodded slowly. “_If_ we tread lightly and carefully.”

“Of course.” Michael said. “Her safety is our top priority. All of this means nothing otherwise.”

“Right,” Crowley agreed. “D’you know Bee in special crimes?”

“I do,” Michael confirmed, twisting her wedding ring around her finger, “I’m working on another case with them right now, just met with them a couple days ago.”

Crowley adored when people used Bee’s proper pronouns. Crowley was trying to remember what was so bad about Michael, what it was he didn’t like—she was growing on him more and more by the minute.

“Bee’ll be the point person on this.” Crowley explained about Bee’s suspicions that someone in their unit was on Morningstar’s take. Michael listened intently, twisting her gold band around her slender finger in a never-ending loop, fidgeting, thinking.

“Do you think we could call them right now and talk through what our best approach might be?” She finally asked, stilling her hands.

Crowley had just begun to nod when there was a harsh knock on his door. Crowley grumbled and looked to Michael apologetically.

“So sorry, pardon the interruption.” He muttered as he got to his feet.

Michael got up, too. “Oh, don’t worry about it, I’m just going to uhm,” she waved her phone at him and pointed to the door.

He opened it to let her out and talk to his interruption and found himself face to face with Gabriel. Crowley couldn’t stop himself form scowling.

“Oh, hello, Gabriel, sorry but I’m just stepping out.” Michael gave him a cursory greeting before quickly brushing past him and taking off down the hallway.

“That’s fine, I’m here to talk to _you_ anyway.” Garbiel’s voice was dripping with that false saccharine sweetness that curdled Crowley’s blood.

Gabriel tried to push past him and into his office, but Crowley stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind him. He sighed. Having it out with Garbiel pre-meeting was undesirable, mid-meeting? Fucking not ideal.

“Right, well as you can see,” Crowley angled his head in the direction of the path Michael had taken, “I’m in the middle of—”

“What the fuck makes you think you can just talk to my wife without consulting me?” Gabriel spat.

“Look, if I wanted to talk to you, I would’ve talked to you. I didn’t want to talk to you, I wanted to talk to _Michael_. Don’t see what that’s got to do with you, mate.” Crowley sneered, baring his teeth.

“Awfully long meeting.” Gabriel narrowed his eyes at him, leaning into his space, “She told me she had a meeting today, she didn’t tell me it was with you.”

Crowley put a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and pushed him out of his face. “Oh, you really don’t have to worry about that, I’m sure your marriage is fine. Not really my type anyways.” Crowley kicked himself as soon as the words had left him. No taking them back now.

Crowley could see the anger flare in his eyes. Not so happy marriage then, eh?

Gabriel leaned in impossibly closer. “Oh, I know all about what your _type_ is. What it has been, for years, apparently.” The words were said to get a rise and they certainly did stoke a fire within Crowley, but he’d be damned if he was going to be so unprofessional as to actually brawl with someone at work, let alone the damn founder’s son.

“Word of advice, Anthony? Don’t tie yourself to that shipwreck, not unless you want to drown.”

Crowley could have hurled at his terrible metaphor. “What the fuck did you do?”

Crowley saw it flash in his eyes, confirmation. “Have a hand in sinking the ship then, did we?”

Gabriel snarled at him. “You’re better off without him, Crowley, believe me.”

Crowley’s gut roiled, aflame with fury. Gabriel backed off a bit, used his hands to smooth the wrinkles out of Crowley’s shirt. Crowley shuddered against the unwanted contact. When he spoke next his tone was back to the saccharine sweet one. “You’re a family lawyer, Crowley, you’re supposed to care about families. He hasn’t even spoken to his in over a decade. His own sister even. Couldn’t be bothered to show up at her wedding.”

“And how could you possibly know that?” Crowley wished he could spit venom, spit it right into his stupid condescending eyes. He happened to be staring into those eyes and followed them as they traced a path to his wedding ring. Crowley cottoned on as he started to explain.

“Because I married her. Because I was there.”

Crowley was sure he did a poor job of concealing his shock.

This was confirmed by Gabriel saying in a mocking tone, “What, didn’t he tell you? I’m not surprised. You’re better off without him Crowley.”

Crowley’s mind was still going through a series of complex mental gymnastics, trying to catch up enough to process the bombshell that had just been dropped on it.

Gabriel finally backed up to a polite distance and spoke using his regular voice, the sound of which Crowley still found grating, “The next time you’re planning on meeting with my wife, give me a heads up would you? It’s only polite.”

“No, it’s not.” Crowley’s mind had restarted enough to reply. “Michael’s a talented lawyer; she’s fully capable of taking meetings without your interference.”

“I must say I agree whole-heartedly with Anthony.” The sound of Michael’s voice made them both snap their heads around. She was leaning against the wall, about ten feet down the hall, examining her nails.

“If you’re quite finished, Gabriel.” Michael pinned him with her eyes.

“How long—” Gabriel started to ask.

“Oh, for pretty much all of it. Cut my call short. I got a feeling, call it a premonition if you like, that my husband was about to do something very stupid.”

_Liking her better and better_, Crowley thought to himself, fighting the urge to sneer at Gabriel, who very much looked like a man that had been caught by his wife doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

She stalked toward him, demeanor cool and unaffected in a way Crowley could only admire.

“I’m here to discuss a case with Anthony,” she shot a glance at Crowley, “which I’m taking, by the way,” She turned back to Gabriel, eyes of ice and steel piercing him, “and I don’t see how anyone’s personal or family life has anything to do with it unless there’s some kind of conflict of interest I’m unaware of? No? Good. I’ll see you at home.”

It was unmistakably a dismissal and she shooed him away, stepping back into Crowley’s office with him and sitting while he shut the door.

Crowley scrubbed a hand over his face. “What the bloody _fuck._” He breathed in deeply, a valiant attempt at regaining composure, and slid down into his chair across from Michael. Crowley’s mind was buzzing painfully. He was desperately trying to reconcile everything in a way that made any sort of sense. He placed his elbows on his desk with his head in his hands and looked miserably up at Michael.

“Can we be a tad bit unprofessional here?” Crowley asked, making a face, “Just for a moment.”

Michael crossed her legs primly before replying, “Oh, after that I think almost anything is professional in comparison.” She blinked.

He cleared his throat, searching through the murky bog waters in his head for words he could string together in a sentence. “You’re um--,” He stopped, Jesus fuck, how to start?

“I uhh,” He sat up a bit straighter, “Your mum was my last foster,” He began.

Confusion contorted Michael’s features. “Yes, but we both knew that already.”

She was right. Much to Gabriel’s chagrin she’d refused to take his last name when they got married. She liked her name and being a Haven came with a reputation she enjoyed preceding her. Crowley had put two and two together and eventually asked her if there was any relation between her and his last foster. As it would turn out, there was. A direct one.

Crowley shook his head back and forth, maybe trying to clear it. “Right, so um, you’re,” Crowley sucked in a breath and let the last part of his question out all on the exhale, “you’re Aziraphale’s sister, then?”

His voice tilted up comically high for the last words.

Michael nodded. “Yes,” she said, uncrossing her legs, “I am.”

“But you don’t have the same last name,” Crowley said lamely, gesturing around helplessly with one of his hands.

Michael’s eyes softened, catching him off guard.

“Oh, yes well, he’s changed it. I just found out recently myself,” She started fidgeting in an uncharacteristic display of nerves, “I hadn’t spoken to him for so long, and it’s only, well—.”

She waved a hand in the air, casting her eyes toward the ceiling, “Gabriel said he’d seen him around, with one of the juniors, and said he was planning weddings and, well the internet is certainly helpful for these sorts of things, not that many ‘Aziraphale’s running around, are there?”

Crowley shook his head in agreement, eyes wide, still trying to narrow in on _what the bloody fuck_ was going on.

Michael continued when it became apparent Crowley didn’t have anything to say. “So, he must have changed it…after.”

That caught Crowley’s attention and provided his poor, addled mind with enough sense to ask a pertinent question.

“After? After what?” Ice propelled itself through his veins, giving him a tenuous, jittery sort of energy; adrenaline.

“Wait, does this have anything to do with why he dropped off the face of the planet, what,” Crowley paused to count the years, “12 years ago?”

Michael gasped; eyes fixed on his hair. “You’re the man in the photo,” she whispered.

“What photo?”

Michael grimaced. “I’m sorry, it’s really not my place to tell, you’re going to have to ask him.” She turned her eyes down.

Crowley’s first instinct was to use all the stray adrenaline bouncing around in his system to demand answers. He thought about it for a moment and realized she was right. The best course of action would be to ask Aziraphale.

He exhaled harshly and said, “Okay.”

They were silent as they gathered themselves and then Michael asked, “Is it weird?”

Crowley tore his eyes away from his window succulents to look at her. “Hmmm?”

“That our mum fostered you?”

“Oh, naaah, well maybe a bit.” Crowley fidgeted.

It was weird to find out all out once, yes, but not really in any other sense. She’d never talked much about her children, and Crowley had been older then, too. He hadn’t needed someone to treat him like a child, he’d just needed someone to treat him like they cared about what happened to him. Aziraphale looked like his mum, Crowley realized. They both had that same calming air about them, the same tantalizing aura that drew Crowley in, promising him he’d find kindness there.

“Not weird enough to change your mind about wanting to shag him, then?” she guessed.

Crowley crossed his arms defensively but couldn’t bring himself to deny it. “I don’t just want to shag him.” He muttered.

Michael graced him with a gentle smile. “Oh, I know, that’s just Gabriel’s twisted world view at work.” She gave him another small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

They took a few more moments to collect and process before Michael suggested she try calling Bee again. She put the phone on speaker and Bee picked up on the second ring.

“Hello Bee, it’s Michael, again. You’re on speaker in Anthony’s office.”

“Hey Michael, nice to see your situation sorted itself out. Crowley.”

Bee’s voice sounded weird, like they were actually happy to talk to Michael. It returned to its usual tone when they addressed him.

By the time their call was over, Crowley was feeling significantly better about the case. He took solace in Michael’s decision to take on the case. She was perfect for it, and Bee seemed to like working with her, which was a significant bonus. He was just reaching his Bentley in the carpark when his phone began vibrating. He fished it out of his trouser pocket and scrambled to answer when he saw who was calling.

“Ang--, Aziraphale? Is everything alright?” His heart pounded painfully in his chest.

“Oh, yes everything is fine. I was hoping we could talk, if you’d be willing to. Maybe tomorrow night, over dinner? I’m sorry, I understand if you’d rather no—”

Crowley cut him off, “Dinner sounds fine, Aziraphale, tell me a time and a place and I’ll be there.”

“Oh well, perfect, I’ll uhm, I’ll text it to you. Have a—ahem--have a nice night.”

“You too, Aziraphale.”

Crowley waited for the line to go dead before finally pulling it away from his ear.

When he got home, he sat in the parked car with his head against the wheel, not wanting to move just yet. His brain needed time to relax and feel mushy. Eventually he hauled himself up to his flat. He spied the plush blankets piled on his couch as soon as he walked in the door and made a beeline for them. A nap sounded bloody fantastic.

***

Aziraphale spent the rest of the day after leaving Tracy’s wandering. He went to the park to feed the ducks some of the stale bread he’d gotten from the café. He knew it wasn’t technically good for them, that frozen peas were healthier, but they swarmed him for the bread regardless, and it never failed to put him in a good mood. He liked watching them waddle up the bank to him, liked hearing their little quacks and noises. He was enjoying being outside today. The cold had a way of making the smog hovering around the city recede a little, and made the air seem just a bit fresher and crisper. It still wasn’t _fresh_ country air, but he would take it. He sat on a bench nearby and watched the ducks while gathering the courage to call Crowley. His hand clenched around his phone in a pocket of his warm outer coat. He was afraid Crowley wouldn’t want anything to do with him, would say something along the lines of, “you made it perfectly clear what you think, I don’t want anything further to do with you, thanks.” Aziraphale’s conversation with Tracy had helped realize that this fear was largely rooted in the guilt he was feeling about the situation. Crowley was so patient, always so kind, not matter the contrary persona he tried to exude. He knew Crowley wouldn’t say anything like that, and perhaps it was the alternative that frightened him more—that despite everything Aziraphale had put him through, he would still show him kindness and understanding and Aziraphale would feel completely unworthy of receiving it.

He took his phone out of the pocket, navigated to Crowley’s number and held his thumb hovering over the call button. He punched the button and held his breath, bringing the phone to his ear and listening to it ring. The thudding of his heart echoed in his ears as he listened to one, two, three rings sound out. One the fourth ring, Crowley’s voice flooded his ears, drowning out all other sound. Dinner. Dinner with Crowley. He could do that. Some place nice, some place with good wine that Crowley would like. He made his way home feeling hopeful.

When he arrived to his flat, there was a package waiting for him outside his door. It was wrapped in a light blue paper, rectangular in shape. He took it in and unwrapped it, gleefully discovering it was a tin of chocolates. A note was tucked in on top of the tin, telling him who his gift was from. Aziraphale’s eyes began to water as he opened it up, reading Crowley’s message: _I’ll be here, if you need me, angel. -C_

A multitude of emotions washed over him and spilled from his eyes down his face. Hopeful, hopeful and undeserving was how he felt.

_I do need you; I need you constantly. Lord, I need you like the blood in my useless heart. _

He sat down in his favorite chair to read, to settle his mind. He took the chocolates with him. He ate a few and tried to read for a while but found he could not settle. He set his book down and grabbed his coat off the hook, headed to the place he went sometimes when he sought comfort.

The hour was late so he didn’t have flowers, but that was all the better as they wouldn’t have survived for long in the weather. Visiting his mother’s headstone always brought him peace. He felt closer to her here, the memories felt crisper, more tangible. He could remember what unconditional love felt like, could feel it swelling inside him. He was thankful to have had her. He was thankful to have Tracy. He was thankful to have had Crowley, to possibly still have him. From somewhere not far behind him, a man cleared his throat. Aziraphale whirled around in surprise.

Crowley was standing a few paces away, Aziraphale hadn’t even heard him come up the path, he’d been so absorbed in his thoughts. He had his hands shoved in the pockets of a leather jacket and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. Aziraphale met his eyes. _His eyes._ How he loved those beautiful eyes. _There is gold in your eyes, the vein of an ore that leads straight to your soul, and I want it to be only for me._

“She used to call you ‘Zee’.”

Aziraphale’s jaw went slack. “How, how did you…” He trailed off, trying to think if he’d ever mentioned it before.

“I met your sister today,” Crowley’s breath puffed in front of him as his words heated the cold air. “Well, I’ve met Michael before, but I didn’t know she was your sister.”

Crowley then scrunched his nose up and made a disgusted face, “Why’d she get married to Gabriel anyway?”

Aziraphale let this information sink in.

“I couldn’t tell you,” He answered while continuing to process.

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck with a gloved hand.

“Your uhm, your mum,” he gestured to the headstone, “she was the one, my last foster.”

Aziraphale was silent, so Crowley continued. “I was almost aged out, didn’t really need a mum at that point, just needed someone to give a damn about what happened to me.”

Aziraphale quirked his mouth up at one corner. “She was good at that.”

He drew closer to Crowley, taking in the bulge under his jacket, wondering just how many layers he was wearing. He was still shivering, despite that.

“Why don’t we go for a walk? Get moving, keep a bit warmer?” Aziraphale offered.

Crowley grunted his assent. “Mmmph, walk, yeah good.”

They crunched up the path together, crushing little bits of frost beneath their feet.

“She was meant to be fostering kittens you know.”

Crowley barked a laugh beside him, sending steam billowing into the night air.

“She told me in a letter, that she was fostering a young man named Anthony. She said I’d like your hair. She was right, you know. I do quite like your hair.”

Aziraphale peered at Crowley out of the corner of his eye and saw his lips twist upward. Aziraphale sighed.

“I really should have put it together before now. What with the gardening and such, but I was always a little slow on the uptake.”

Crowley nudged him with an elbow, the blow was padded by his many layers. “No slower than me.”

They walked along in companionable silence until Crowley finally spoke again.

“Aziraphale, what happened? When you left, I mean.”

Aziraphale exhaled sharply and Crowley rushed to assure him. “You don’t have to talk about now if you don’t want to.”

“No, no it’s what I planned on telling you tomorrow, seems silly to wait when you’re here asking now.”

They stopped walking and Aziraphale took him in. He drank in the wide, pleading amber eyes, watery against the cold. 

“And I want to tell you.” He gestured to a bench a few feet away from them, up the path. “Why don’t we sit down.”

Aziraphale explained it all, each word carved out of his soul, like dead bark smothering the tree underneath, every word a weight off him, out of him. He explained about his father, about his sexuality, about his mother. About the fear of being himself to the rest of his family, the fear of what his father might do. How that fear had been realized, and how Crowley had been an unwilling participant. Aziraphale reached out and took one of Crowley’s gloved hands.

“You remember that night?” Aziraphale ventured.

Crowley chuckled, interlocking their fingers. Their knuckles fit together tightly, encased in their gloves.

“You mean snogging in the back room of the flat like teenagers?”

Aziraphale blushed at the memory. ‘Snogging’ was a rather polite way of putting it. ‘Minutes away from fucking against the wall’ would have been more accurate.

“Ahem, yes quite.”

Aziraphale explained the photo, the moment it had been captured, and who it had been sent to.

“Jesus, what the _fuck_?” Crowley’s mouth hung open in horror. Aziraphale finished catching him up, telling him about Tracy and seeing Michael.

Crowley was silent when he finished, appearing to be deep in thought. He stroked the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb.

“Do you know who did it?” Crowley asked.

“I have my suspicions, but nothing I would be able to prove.”

Crowley nodded absently. “It was Gabriel.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed, “I came to the same conclusion.”

Aziraphale turned to face him more fully. ‘’Crowley, I owe you an apology—A series of apologies, really.”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but Aziraphale stopped him.

“You’ve shown me nothing but patience and kindness and I am so, so thankful.”

Aziraphale swallowed before continuing. “I never felt like I had a choice, before.” He explained. “But I feel like I have one now. A rather important one.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand and cherished the soft expression he found in Crowley’s golden eyes.

“Can you forgive me my frankly deplorable behavior?”

Crowley smirked. “Deplorable’s a bit of a strong word.”

He moved to stand and tugged Aziraphale up with him.

“I forgive you, angel. Of course, I forgive you.”

Crowley shivered violently.

“Do you mind if we move this indoors? Night cap perhaps?” Crowley asked, furiously rubbing his hands up and down his arms.

“A wonderful idea.”

“I’ve got a good red back at mine, give you a lift?” Crowley jabbed his finer over his shoulder in the direction of the carpark.

Aziraphale nodded and moved to wrap an arm around Crowley, pulling him in to share his body heat.

Crowley made an adorable noise in surprise, “Nngk,” but quickly snuggled in closer to the warmth. Their hips jostled together as they made their way to the Bentley.

Crowley cracked open the bottle of red, a nice Cabernet, and poured them each a glass. They sat on the couch, thighs touching, talking and laughing. Aziraphale emptied his first glass and Crowley got up to refill it.

“I’m not gonna have much, got to make it to work in the morning, but you have as much as you like,” He called over his shoulder.

Aziraphale only intended on having the two glasses. The places were their thighs were touching were sending little jolts of electricity through his body. He kept his wine glass in his hand for the sake of keeping his hands to himself. When the glass was emptied, he set it on the coffee table and used his hand to brush a stray piece of hair off Crowley’s cheek and behind his ear. Crowley blushed a deep, pretty pink that Aziraphale very much wanted to see all over his body.

They chatted for the better part of an hour, conversation full of light and unnecessary touches, before Aziraphale reluctantly got to his feet. He was overstaying his welcome. It had already been late when they’d gone for their walk in the park and it was significantly later now. Crowley had work in the morning, it wouldn’t do to keep him any longer.

He caught Crowley’s eye and gave him a shy smile. “I should go, I don’t want to keep you up.”

Crowley bit his bottom lip and nodded. Aziraphale took his empty glass to the sink and walked to the door with Crowley following.

“’S fine,” Crowley said, putting his hands in his pockets, drawing Aziraphale’s gaze, “I don’t mind. You’re good company.” Crowley tentatively extended a hand, used a knuckle to rub a sensitive spot of skin on his neck, leaving it aflame.

Aziraphale stood with his back to the door, coat draped over one arm, eyes darting to Crowley’s elegant lips, stained with wine. He knew what the wine tasted like, but he wanted to know what it tasted like on Crowley. He cleared his throat.

“I’ll, uhm, I’ll just be on my way then, call you tomorrow, lunch perhaps.” He exhaled the words in a rush, already leaning in, committed to his current course of action. He tilted his head upwards, just so, the perfect angle to catch Crowley’s lips with his own. Crowley let out a surprised gasp before melting against him, lips soft and sweet against his own. The intensity of the kiss quickly increased. The rush of sensation was sublime. Aziraphale could taste the wine and the intrinsic taste of Crowley’s flesh beneath it, combining in a way that drew Aziraphale in and threatened to never let go. He ran his tongue across Crowley’s bottom lip, savoring before nipping at it. Crowley’s resulting moan set him alight, sending shocks of lust reverberating through his body. Crowley’s lips parted then, and Aziraphale slid his tongue into Crowley’s mouth, swallowing his noises as they rose up from his throat.

Crowley surged against him until his back was pressed firmly against the door with a dull thud. Aziraphale threw his coat to the ground and buried a hand in Crowley’s soft, silken hair while wrapping the other arm around his waist and pulling him closer, pulling his hips flush against his own, moaning when his erection was pressed against Crowley’s thigh, when he felt Crowley’s own hardness rub against his hip. Aziraphale nibbled along Crowley’s jaw before leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his neck, feeling the vibrations of Crowley’s throat with his lips, wanting desperately to pull more of those sounds from him. He mouthed back up Crowley’s neck, paused to nip and suck, before landing at his ear.

“Tell me to go, and I will,” He murmured.

“I don’t want you to.” Crowley’s voice was rough, raw.

Their mouths met again, tongues tangling together. Aziraphale gasped when Crowley sunk both of his hands into his hair. Crowley pulled away, still close enough for his breath to tickle Aziraphale’s lips.

“As much fun as this was against the wall last time,” He paused to suck at the sensitive spot under his ear, just behind the angle of his jaw. Aziraphale keened and inhaled, the scent of Crowley’s hair—bergamot and cedar—flooding his senses.

Crowley finished his assault on Aziraphale’s throat and murmured against his lips, “I’ve got a perfectly good bed we can put to good use.”

Aziraphale pushed off the wall, letting Crowley tug him in the direction of his bedroom. Aziraphale tugged at the hem of Crowley’s henley and Crowley pulled it up and over his head, dropping it on the floor. He untied Aziraphale’s bowtie between fervent kisses and let it join his abandoned shirt. They managed to stumble through the open bedroom door. Aziraphale backed Crowley to the bed, pushing him to sit and then climbing over his lap, straddling him.

“Are you sure, angel?” Crowley asked, words slurred with his lips mashed to Aziraphale’s.

“Yes,” Aziraphale gasped, moving his hands to unbutton Crowley’s trousers.

Crowley’s fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, tongue trailing over each new strip of exposed skin as they were unbuttoned.

Aziraphale ground his hips against Crowley’s, causing them both to moan at the delicious sensation the friction produced. Aziraphale let Crowley divest him of his shirt before placing both hands on Crowley’s chest and pushing him to lie back on the bed.

“I’m not afraid, not anymore.” He sucked along Crowley’s neck, pausing to taste the thrumming pulse with his tongue, before sucking a bruise into the space under a collarbone.

“I don’t want to wait any longer. I’m only sorry it took me so long to catch up.”

He kissed and nibbled his way down Crowley’s squirming body, drinking in the noises he made. When he made it to his waist band, he tugged the trousers down and let Crowley kick them off. Aziraphale made quick work of his own trousers and pants, lying back and arching his hips up to get rid of them. Crowley was on him in an instant, pushing his hips into the bed and mouthing the flesh around his throbbing cock. Aziraphale groaned and threw an arm over his face as Crowley licked the drop of precome off the head before taking the tip into his mouth and sucking. Crowley’s mouth was deliciously hot and wet, and he whined as Crowley swallowed more of him down. Crowley smiled around him as Aziraphale whined and wriggled. Crowley bobbed his head fully up and down, letting Aziraphale’s cock slide into his throat a few times before pulling off. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Aziraphale panted, taking in the gold eyes darkened with lust.

“What do you want, angel?” His voice was hoarse, husky, and it made Aziraphale’s cock twitch.

Aziraphale took a moment to consider. “I want you inside of me. Want to feel you.”

Crowley groaned in response and nodded his head. “Yeah, _fuck_ yes.”

Crowley lunged off the bed and dug around in a drawer, producing a bottle of lube. He parted Aziraphale’s thighs and teased at the skin on the inside with licks and kisses before pulling away to slick the fingers of one hand. Aziraphale took in the sight of his long, beautiful fingers disappearing between his legs and licked his lips. He reached out to wrap his hand around Crowley’s cock, loving how substantial and warm it felt in his hand.

“Mmmph,” Crowley groaned, stilling his hand. “Want it,” he swallowed, “Want it to last. Want to make it good for you.” Aziraphale moved his hand to wrap around a hip bone instead.

“It’s already so good.”

Crowley smirked down at him and circled his entrance with a slick finger. Aziraphale canted his hips against it, wanting more of the sensation. Crowley teased him a bit longer before sinking the digit all the way in. He slid it in and out steadily, slowly.

“Don’t make me wait.” Aziraphale begged, “Please, please another.”

Crowley complied, adding a another and then another, fucking him open with those long, elegant fingers. Aziraphale cried out, grinding hungrily down onto the fingers.

Crowley kept his fingers moving as he leaned away, coming back with a condom. Aziraphale panted, pulling himself off Crowley’s hand and moving to straddle him.

“Have you been tested, recently?” Aziraphale asked, looking meaningfully at the condom.

Crowley nodded. “Few months ago.”

“About a year ago for me. I trust you, dear, and I don’t plan on being with anyone else any time soon. Unless of course you’d be more comfortable using one.”

Crowley let the condom drop out of his hand.

Aziraphale pushed him to lie back again. Crowley slicked his cock and Aziraphale helped him guide it to his entrance, sinking down, luxuriating in each new inch that filled him. Crowley moaned until he was fully seated. Aziraphale took a moment to adjust before beginning to slowly bounce up and down, crying out his pleasure.

“Oh, you feel so good darling, so good.” Aziraphale panted, beginning to move with more urgency. Crowley’s cock was the perfect length to nudge his prostate with every thrust and it was lighting him up.

“_Fuck_, angel, you feel perfect.”

Crowley dug his fingers into the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s thighs, holding them as Aziraphale rode him with increasing vigor. Crowley’s head was thrown back, the tendons in his neck pulled taut, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, noises flowing from his open mouth.

“Yes, angel, yes fuck, you’re so bloody beautiful. Yes, yes, _yes_, use my cock, make it feel good.”

“So good, mmmm, it feels so good!”

Aziraphale was crying out with startling volume but he couldn’t give a damn. Crowley’s own moans began to match his in desperation and volume. Aziraphale leaned forward to grasp the headboard, using it to slam himself down on Crowley’s cock harder. Crowley grabbed at his hips, dug his fingers in and pulled him down on every thrust, canting his own hips up to meet him.

“Oh fuck!” Aziraphale shouted. “Oh, Crowley, just like that, fuck. Just like that.”

Azirphale took his cock in his hand, stroking quickly as the sensations reached a fever pitch. He yelled into the room, hearing it echo out into the empty apartment as he came, spilling over his hand and painting Crowley’s chest. Crowley came with a shout not long after, pulsing warmly inside of him. They stayed like that, catching their breath, before Aziraphale slid off to collapse beside him. Crowley got up to clean himself off with a wet cloth, bringing one back for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s eyelids felt very heavy. He yawned as Crowley climbed back into bed and under the covers, motioning for Aziraphale to do the same. Aziraphale joined him and nuzzled into Crowley’s neck, feeling sated, and happier than he could remember being for a long time. They traded lazy, sleepy kisses, limbs tangling together before finally succumbing to the urge to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. I was a little nervous as this chapter's a big one and I only hope I did it justice.  
As always, I'm @[halfofmysoulistrees](http://halfofmysoulistrees.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, feel free to drop by or leave a note here. I love, love, love your comments and interaction. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :) Feel free to leave a comment if you feel so inclined. This will be multiple chapters, who knows how many? I sure don't! I'm on tumblr @halfofmysoulistrees
> 
> Also I write smut, so expect the rating on this to sky rocket pretty quickly. ;)


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